My Cousin, My Nemesis
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke is gravely ill, strangers are dropping in, and Leslie is at her wits' end. When an old enemy gets involved, it could spell the end of Fantasy Island! Follows 'Paola'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This will be posted in at least two, maybe more, separate sessions: as I post what's here as of today (August 14), the story isn't done yet. I do know how it will end, though; it's just a matter of getting it written between dentist appointments, two jobs and various other odds and ends that have a way of eating up my time. So here we go, and I hope I won't make my faithful readers _too_ crazy with suspense! Thanks again to Harry2, jtbwriter and Kyryn for your welcome support and interest.  
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_§ § § -- January 29, 1999

Things didn't stay normal for long after Paola's departure. Only a few days passed before Leslie noticed that Roarke pleaded fatigue more and more, and went to bed a little earlier every night. She wondered uneasily if his battle with Paola had taken a larger toll on him than even he had realized.

On the last Friday evening in January, about nine, Roarke called a halt to the day and slowly crossed the study, while Leslie watched, disturbed by his uncharacteristic shuffle. Just as he reached the steps, his entire body gave way under him, totally without warning. Instinctively he lunged for the newel post and caught it, at the same moment a badly startled Leslie reached him and lent him assistance in remaining on his feet. "This has gone far enough," she told him point-blank. "I've seen this coming on for close to two weeks now. What's wrong, Father?"

Roarke shook his head, firmly clamping onto the post, his face a mask of thorough confusion. "I don't quite know," he murmured, clearly concentrating on not collapsing. "I have a suspicion, but—" He started wilting then, and Leslie instantly ducked down to drape his arm over her shoulders.

"We'll figure it out later," she said firmly. "Just hold onto me and I'll get you upstairs." Thus fortified, the two started their climb; but even with Leslie's support, it took Roarke almost ten minutes to scale the steps. She helped him into his room, so busy watching him for signs of further weakening that it never really dawned on her that she had entered her father's bedroom for the first time ever. At his direction she settled him onto the large bed, then tried to offer further resistance, which he refused.

"I can handle the rest," Roarke said with a smile of thanks. "I do have other ways of taking care of myself, you know."

Leslie had to grin at that. "I guess that means your powers aren't diminished any," she said. "All right, but for heaven's sake, don't be too proud to call me if you need anything." He nodded smiling acquiescence, but as she backed out of the room with a heavily worried eye on him, she had a feeling she wouldn't hear a word from him all night.

§ § § -- January 30, 1999

She turned out to be right, but not for the reason she thought. On Saturday morning, no matter how much she knocked, she couldn't raise a response from Roarke. At last she took a deep breath and eased the door open, just enough to poke her head cautiously inside and discover that Roarke was sleeping the sleep of the chronically exhausted. She called out several times, but he never stirred at all. Alarm snaked through her; instinct propelled her into the room and led her to check his temperature. It seemed abnormally high, even to her untrained touch. It was enough to tell Leslie without question that he wouldn't be granting any fantasies that weekend.

But they had guests counting on them, and Leslie knew there was just no way they could pull off pleading for an eleventh-hour rain check. Something had to be done, and very quickly. She fled the room and rushed down the stairs into the study, where she grabbed the phone and called Dr. Fernando Ordoñez, pleading that he squeeze in a trip to the main house to examine Roarke that day. When she had his reassurance that he'd be there when he could, she called Julie. "It's Leslie and I need your help this weekend," she blurted as soon as Julie answered.

"Huh?" said Julie. "Leslie, I haven't had my coffee yet. What's the matter?"

"Never mind the coffee," Leslie shot back. "Father's sick, Julie, seriously sick. He's so sound asleep that I can't wake him up, and for the last two weeks he's been getting steadily weaker and more tired. I had to help him up the stairs last night, and now he won't wake up and probably has a temperature." Julie made a startled noise, but Leslie rushed right on. "I need you to help me with the fantasies. It's too late to cancel and the guests are due in the next hour. Please. I'm not asking you to be the assistant, because heck knows I'm certainly not the boss. I just need an extra brain—two heads are supposed to be better than one."

"Geez," Julie said, amazed. "What do you think's wrong with uncle?"

"I don't know," Leslie said in frustration. "Even _he_ doesn't know! That's how bad it is. Please, Julie, come over—the sooner, the better."

"Okay, okay, calm down," Julie said hastily. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Meet you out front like always."

And in about forty minutes, Leslie Hamilton and Julie MacNabb found themselves standing on the edge of the little grassy clearing around the plane dock, with Leslie giving Julie information through Roarke's notes that she'd hastily memorized. "Okay, those three guys are Jared Mills, Mark Roquemore and Mason Hardy. They're bounty hunters, partners in a business, and their fantasy is to take down one of the most notorious poachers on the planet—a guy named Oscar Worth."

Julie looked surprised. "I've actually heard of him. For years he got away with shooting African elephants for their ivory tusks."

"Right," Leslie said. "Thing is, the ivory poaching made him so filthy rich that he was able to retreat to a heavily-guarded fortress…and unfortunately, said fortress is right here on Fantasy Island. He lives in the estate that used to belong to Edmond Dumont."

"Why would Maestro Dumont sell to somebody like that?" Julie wondered.

Leslie shrugged. "I heard it was his lawyer who handled the actual sale, and when he found out who the buyer was, it was too late. Anyway, these three guys want to take Worth out, once and for all. So that's what they're doing here."

"More power to 'em, I say," Julie remarked. "And who's this guy? He looks like he jumped off a sinking ship and swam all the way here."

Leslie laughed and nodded, admitting, "That's kind of what I thought too! His name's Austin Deal, he's from Cody, Wyoming, and his fantasy actually does have to do with ships. He wants to go back in time and meet Blackbeard. That's it, pure and simple."

Julie gave her a hopeful look. "Maybe we'll pull this off after all. All we have to do is send Mr. Deal back to whenever the heck it is that Blackbeard lived, and drive the bounty-hunting gang out to the Dumont place and turn 'em loose. Easy."

"I sure hope so," Leslie muttered doubtfully, then did a slight double-take when the native girl presented her with a tray. She lifted the glass of white wine off it and gave Julie a sidelong look. "Here goes," she murmured, then raised her voice. "Good morning, gentlemen! I'm Leslie Hamilton, and this is Julie MacNabb; we're your hosts for the weekend." Together she and Julie chorused, "Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

The bounty hunters and the would-be pirate raised their drinks and nodded, and Julie and Leslie looked at each other. "I guess we sounded okay," Julie suggested.

"Wait till they ask where Father is," Leslie mumbled pessimistically and took a big draft of the wine in her glass.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Is he awake yet?" Julie asked when Leslie came down the steps. It was about ninety minutes later, and they were expecting Austin Deal any moment.

Leslie shook her head and said, "No. Well, I mean, just for a moment, he did wake up, but he looked as if he wasn't in the here and now. He didn't focus, and for that matter he barely opened his eyes. I have to hope it's ready to go. At least we got it all decorated last night before he collapsed."

"I guess that's good," Julie said a little doubtfully. "Boy, there are times when I wish I knew how to do what uncle does."

"Me too," Leslie said. "But I still know only a few simple tricks, and since I'm not his blood offspring I probably won't be capable of learning much more than that." There was a knock on the door, and the two women threw each other panicked looks.

"This is it," said Julie, gulped loudly, then walked resolutely to the door and admitted Austin Deal. He was a long-bearded fellow in his mid-fifties or so, with skin permanently tanned by the wind and sun, a wiry build and a twinkle in his eye. "Hello, Mr. Deal."

"Hi there, little lady," Deal replied and grinned. "Now which of you lovely ladies is sending me into my fantasy?"

"Both of us, actually," Leslie said, glad to note that he seemed very good-natured. "If you're ready, we are."

"I been ready for at least forty years, young miss," Deal remarked cheerfully. "Blackbeard's fascinated me ever since I was a young'un. And growin' up in Wyoming where there ain't much for water, I sure's heck had me a time imaginin' m'self sailin' them high seas and havin' adventures, and followin' Blackbeard on all his plunderin' excursions. M'pa died nigh on a year back an' left me some cash, an' told me to use it however I wanted. An' this was how I wanted." He grinned.

Leslie and Julie grinned back. "Then I hope your fantasy's everything you ever dreamed of," Leslie said, opening the door to the time-travel room with a flourish. Deal preceded her and Julie inside; while Julie closed the door, Leslie glanced around the room and sent up a silent hope that it would respond when she needed it to. The fog was already swirling around their feet; they seemed to be standing on the gently bobbing deck of a ship. Deal stared all around the room in fascination. A ship's sail, suspended from the ceiling, hid most of two walls, and elsewhere one could make out fishermen's nets, complete with starfish and seaweed hanging from them.

"All I need's a parrot," Deal wisecracked and cackled happily at his own joke. Leslie and Julie smiled politely.

"Go to the ship's wheel and stand behind it," Leslie instructed him. "No matter how much fog there is, hold onto that wheel."

Deal headed eagerly for it and grasped the two topmost spokes, scanning the walls as though gazing at an ocean around him. To Leslie's immense relief, the fog billowed up right on cue and swallowed Deal from their sight; she felt Julie nudge her and swiftly followed the older girl out of the room and back into the study.

"Whew," Julie exclaimed. "One down and one to go."

Leslie nodded, tossing a nervous glance up the stairs. "I think we better hurry. I have no idea what time Dr. Ordoñez will be able to get out here."

They picked up Hardy, Mills and Roquemore at the bungalow where they'd stashed their luggage; the three men were already outfitted for their mission, with the necessary survival gear and tactical maps of the area. The former Dumont estate was still walled off, with only one access gate to the outside world, and Leslie could still see the crowded tops of the trees in its jungle within the walls. None of the men had said much on the trip over, and both Julie and Leslie had kept the conversation down to essentials.

"It's in the same condition it was when Maestro Edmond Dumont sold it," Leslie explained to the three men after they had all alighted from the car. "The jungle inside those walls is some of the thickest on the island, and there may still be wild animals in there."

"Unless Worth poached them all," Julie said sardonically.

"Doubtful," Roquemore replied, eyeing the visible vegetation. "If the jungle didn't get any intruders, the animals would."

Leslie nodded solemnly. "This is the only entrance from outside the wall," she said. "I wish you luck, all three of you. When my father found out who bought the estate, he was very upset, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. So when you requested this fantasy, he saw an opportunity to bring Oscar Worth to justice."

"We'll do everything in our power to make that happen," Hardy promised quietly. "Thank you for the chance."

Leslie smiled faintly; she and Julie nodded at the men, who tipped their hats at them before turning to the gate. Leslie climbed behind the wheel of the station wagon and Julie dropped into the passenger seat. Once they were back on the Ring Road from the estate's access lane, they shot each other cautiously relieved looks.

"What next?" Julie asked.

"We should have at least a few hours," Leslie reasoned. "Do you need to stop in at the B&B and check on anything?"

Julie nodded. "I do have some business to handle," she said. "Give me a call when you need me again, okay?" Leslie agreed and dropped Julie at her home before returning to the main house. There she found Fernando Ordoñez just climbing the porch steps; his green medical jeep sat in front of the fountain.

"Hello, Leslie," Fernando greeted her, and she smiled with relief. "So it's Mr. Roarke who's ill? Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"You're not the only one," Leslie told him. "Come on up with me." Fernando trailed her into the study and up the steps, where Leslie stuck her head through Roarke's door and gave a soft sigh of disappointment. "He's still asleep," she reported.

She stepped aside for Fernando, who gave Roarke a cursory examination and then took his temperature. "I can't rule out anything at the moment," Fernando said slowly, reading the thermometer. "It could be the flu, or pneumonia, or just a cold with a fever…his temperature's a hundred and three. If it goes any higher you should get him to the hospital." He focused on Leslie. "What symptoms did he have?"

"It started out with creeping fatigue," Leslie said. "Every day he got a little weaker, and he went to bed a little earlier. Then last night, he almost collapsed on the way up here, and I had to help him the rest of the way. If there were any other problems, he never let on to me. I remember him saying he had a suspicion as to what might be wrong, but he didn't get another chance to tell me. And today he's only barely woken up."

Fernando studied Roarke in concern. "When was that?"

"A couple of hours ago or so," Leslie said, "but I don't think he was really awake. I mean, he moved a little, and his eyes cracked open just the tiniest bit, but that's all."

Fernando considered this, frowning slightly, then shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. "Let's face it, this is Mr. Roarke we're talking about. It may not be anything I can diagnose. Leslie, does this house have air conditioning?"

Surprised, Leslie said slowly, "Yes, but we usually don't need it. We had it installed right after a heat wave a couple of years ago."

"Well, turn it on," said Fernando firmly. "Get this room cooled down as much as you can. If you have time, see if you can keep some chilled damp towels handy and try to reduce the fever that way. I know you're busy with it being the weekend, so at least get the house cool. It'll be a start. If he wakes up, call me right away."

She escorted Fernando out, then found the thermostat in the upstairs hallway and switched on the central air conditioning, after which she scuttled around the house closing windows. In Roarke's room she paused long enough to stare down at his still features, relaxed in his deep sleep. What did he have, and how had he gotten it? With a heavy sigh she departed the room to prepare some towels.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 31, 1999

By late afternoon Sunday, the weekend that had started out so promisingly had sunk into a mess that made Leslie and Julie feel as if they were being swallowed by quicksand. The two had gone together to make a check on the bounty hunters, only to discover that Jared Mills had gotten caught by Oscar Worth's minions and Hardy and Roquemore now had the additional task of rescuing him. Unfortunately they had no way of getting inside without risking their own capture, and Leslie was unable to help, since she was not even remotely familiar with the layout of the estate's castle. Then Leslie had tried three times to make a visit to Austin Deal to find out how things were going in his fantasy; but she had been unable to make the jump through time for some reason. She had the sense of an unbreachable barrier, as if Deal were so engrossed in his fantasy that he didn't want anyone coming to tell him it was all over. This, combined with Leslie's worries over Roarke, had sawed away at her nerves till she was ready to crack at the slightest provocation.

It was almost four o'clock when Julie came in to find Leslie pacing the floor, her fingers tented out over her forehead as if she were suffering from a headache. "You okay?" Julie asked, stepping into the study.

Leslie stopped short and threw her hands in the air. "I just don't know what to do!" she burst out. "I can't get through to Austin Deal, and I have no way to help out those bounty hunters. I feel like a failure…unless you can come up with any ideas."

"Leslie, I'm even more clueless than you," Julie protested. "You've been doing this for the last eight years or so. I did it only one year, and that was when you were still in high school! Do you really think I can help?"

"Why don't you just…well, throw something off the top of your head?" Leslie asked with some desperation. "Even an off-the-cuff idea is better than nothing."

"Well, geez…" Julie peered at the ceiling for a long minute, as though there were a list of ideas pasted to it, before she ventured, "Well, maybe you could get a plan of the estate castle to those bounty hunters, if you happen to have one lying around."

"Sure, we keep blueprints of every building on the island," Leslie said sarcastically, then reconsidered. "But then again, maybe that's not such a crazy idea after all. I could look into it at town hall in Amberville. But suppose they don't have any copies?"

Julie suggested gently, "Maybe you should check it out before you shoot it down. On the other hand, if they don't, we might have to refund the bounty hunters' money."

"Excuse me…are you ladies busy?" asked a male voice then, and Julie whipped around in startled surprise while Leslie peered over her shoulder. Standing in the foyer was a tall, very handsome man with jet-black hair, blue eyes and a quizzical smile on his face. To Leslie, not only did he look a little bit like Roarke, she also had the distinct feeling she had met him once before.

"Uh…who're you?" Leslie asked, a note of suspicion in her voice, moving slowly towards the foyer steps to get a better look at the newcomer.

"Name's Rogan Callaghan," he said to her. "I just got in, and…" He stopped and squinted at her, then suddenly grinned. "Leslie Hamilton, is it?" He spoke with just a trace of Irish brogue.

"Yes…how did you know?" Leslie asked.

"Saw you years ago when I was working on Arcolos," he told her. "King Errico was still prince back then…I think it was a couple years before Tattoo passed on."

The words triggered Leslie's memory and her eyes widened. "Yeah, you went with him on an art-shopping trip to Tattoo's gallery! What're you doing here?"

"Oh…heard about the island and thought I'd take a little vacation trip," Rogan said with a shrug. "But it sounds to me as if you can use a little help."

Leslie stared at him. "What gives you that idea? Do you know something?"

Julie, who had been gaping at Rogan with speechless fascination, said suddenly, "Leslie, for crying out loud, we do need help. Let the man tell us what he can do."

"But we don't even know him!" Leslie exploded.

"I know that Mr. Roarke is indisposed," Rogan told her, making her face go slack with shock and the beginnings of outrage. Even Julie blinked in surprise. "I also overheard something about refunding someone's money as I was opening the door to come in here, and I've a feeling it means you have some problems, not the least of which is Mr. Roarke's being ill. Don't ask me just yet where I found out all this. King Errico trusted me several years ago, enough to put me in a very prestigious position at the palace. I moved on after the artist died, as he no longer needed an art consultant; but while I was there, he had all confidence in the world that I would do the best and most discreet job I could for him. I can do that for you here, as well. It's true you don't know me, Miss Hamilton, but I do have some idea of what's happening. If you'll let me help, I will."

"Tell me just how you think you can help," Leslie said skeptically.

Rogan cleared his throat. "For starters, I can probably figure out what Mr. Roarke has," he told her. "Tell me what his symptoms are."

"How can you diagnose Father when the doctor couldn't?" Leslie demanded.

"Will you trust me, please?" Rogan asked. "Let's get these problems solved first and then I can answer whatever questions you have. What symptoms has he had?"

Her fear for Roarke, which had sat like a massive stone in her stomach all weekend, drove her to give in, and with a little reluctance she described what had been happening to Roarke for the last two weeks. Rogan nodded faintly a couple of times and mulled over her words; she watched his face change, waiting for the verdict and wondering whether she could really trust him at all. But the regretful expression that entered his eyes seemed sincere. "I'm afraid he has…" The next word he said was completely incomprehensible.

Leslie stared at him, bewildered, yet afraid of what it meant. "What's that?"

"Oh, pardon me," Rogan said. "It means 'bone-eating disease', and that's what your father has." He noticed her confused look, gave a soft sigh, and with great reluctance told her, "It…it's the same terminal disease that killed Paola."

For a second or two Leslie wondered how he knew Paola; then the rest of his words sank in and she felt a chill engulf her entire body. She must have turned white, for Rogan got an alarmed look about him and reached out to steady her. His hands on her arms were like an electric shock to her frozen system and she came to instantaneous life, yanking herself back from him and retreating several slow, blind steps backwards. She started to shake her head like a stuck automaton. Her lips formed the word "no", but her voice wouldn't work. Rogan nodded sorrowfully.

Julie stared at him. "Good Lord, man, how insensitive can you possibly be?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have been so blunt, but I didn't know any gentle way to break it to her," he said through a sigh. "Besides, I think it would have been a disservice to her to beat around the bush."

Leslie backed into one of the chairs and nearly toppled over; this time, when Rogan came to steady her, she submitted. "Should I call anyone?" he asked a little awkwardly.

Leslie gaped at him as if he'd just landed from Jupiter; for all she or Julie knew, he might very well have done so. "Who's there to call?" she asked in a tiny voice. The four syllables punched through the fragile wall of calm that shock had set up, and she began to break down in slow motion, sinking into the chair and rocking back and forth, keening in a high, faint wail and hugging herself as though she were cold. She did in fact feel very cold right now: she was about to be left utterly alone in the world, for the second time in her life.

"Good Lord," said Julie uneasily. "She's carrying on as if he's already died."

"He _will_ die," Rogan told her quietly in a flat, resigned tone. "The disease has no known cure, and while it may take years, one day it will kill him. Maybe sooner than later. The way Leslie described the symptoms, he seems to have contracted an especially virulent form of it."

Julie gaped at him, horrified. "Isn't there anything at all that can be done? I mean, come on, we can't just stand around waiting for uncle to die! Isn't there even some kind of tonic that could make it easier for him? Don't you know of anybody who's done any research on this thing?"

Rogan had been watching her in surprise. "He means a lot to you too, then?"

"Listen, Rogan Callaghan, uncle was friends with my parents since ages before I was born, and he's godfather to both me and my sister. Both Leslie and I are orphans, and he's the rock in our lives, but especially in hers." Julie pulled Leslie out of the chair and into a protective hug. "But me and Leslie aside, there's the question of what happens to this island! What're we supposed to do?"

"I'll do anything I can to help," Rogan promised, perhaps a little rashly. He spoke so quickly that Julie gave him an odd look.

"Like what?" she asked skeptically.

"I can salvage the weekend," he said, clearing his throat. "If you'll let me."

Even Leslie looked up at this, and she and Julie both examined him so minutely that he began to fidget. Finally Leslie asked, "Who _are_ you?"

Rogan hesitated too long and Julie, despite her lingering fascination with him, squinted suspiciously. "Come on, pal, spill it. Leslie asked you a question, and I'd find the answer very interesting myself."

Rogan seemed to suddenly withdraw inward, and his face got a shuttered look to it. "If you ladies don't want my help, all you need to do is say so," he said remotely. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned and started to leave.

Julie promptly caved in. "Don't leave, Rogan, please! Leslie, don't let him walk out of here. If he knows what to do to save this weekend from catastrophe and us from total humiliation, then we can't afford to let him go. It might work—at least it's worth a shot."

Leslie looked back and forth between the anxious Julie and the silent Rogan, who had stopped at the foyer steps but not turned around, and finally sighed, looking beaten. "I guess things can't get any worse than they already are." Julie beamed, nodding vigorous agreement, and even Rogan chuckled, facing her once more. "Okay, here's the thing. The old estate that used to belong to Edmond Dumont is owned by a notorious poacher. We have three tough macho-man bounty hunters who're after him, but he's using the estate house as a fortress and they can't penetrate it. Worse than that, one of them got caught and the other guys have to spring him before they can take down the poacher. The island authorities are helpless. We need someone who can give these guys an in on that castle so they can make a success of their fantasy, and we can get rid of the scumbag living there."

"I'm on it," said Rogan promptly. "And the other one?"

"We've got a time-traveling fantasizer who's been blocking access somehow. He's on Blackbeard's pirate ship, and every time I try to check up on him, I can't get through—it's like he's set up a barrier so I can't come in and end his fantasy on him. Father could easily break through, but obviously he's not able to right now, and I don't have the capability."

Rogan grinned. "I'll take care of him right enough. It's late afternoon, so do you want me to start now?"

"Might as well," said Leslie with a fatalistic shrug. "You handle our time-traveler and I'll see if I can dig up some blueprints for the estate castle. You'll be looking for a guy named Austin Deal. He's about my height, maybe a little shorter, roughly late 50s with a long white beard, kind of skinny. He'll be dressed like a pirate, and he may very well have a parrot on his shoulder." Julie snickered at that, and Leslie half-smiled in reply.

"Not a problem," said Rogan. "Where do I go?"

"Through that door," said Leslie. "That's our time-travel room and the portal we tend to use most often. The link between the time periods should still be open."

Rogan saluted playfully. "As you say, madame." He went to the door and slipped through it; Julie stood eyeing it as if she would have liked to go with him.

Leslie poked her. "Snap out of it, Julie. We've got to find some blueprints."

Julie searched files while Leslie made phone calls to the few governmental offices on the island, and was relieved to discover that the town hall did in fact have a copy of the castle blueprint, filed when the building was under construction for Edmond Dumont. Leaving Julie to man the phone and wait for Rogan and Austin Deal, Leslie took a jeep into town and procured a copy of the blueprint. When she returned, Rogan had come back with a very reluctant Deal, who was shaking his finger at Rogan and Julie and scolding them roundly for interrupting his fun. As soon as Leslie came in, he turned on her. "D'you realize what ya done to me, little lady? I was havin' me a time, an' here comes this fancy-mouthed interloper to drag me back into my boring old life. I want my money back."

"What kind of time were you having?" Rogan inquired. "Good or bad?"

Deal shot him a glare. "None o'your lip, sonny."

"I ask only because you just demanded a refund," said Rogan reasonably. "If you were having a bad time, then you might be entitled to a refund. But it looked to me as if you were loving every second of it."

"I was, an' I don't like you comin' in and yankin' me outta it!" Deal snapped.

"Then your fantasy was all you hoped for?" Leslie asked.

"An' more even! That ol' Blackbeard was a real boot-stomper all right. Knew how to have himself a time. An' I was havin' me one too, when—"

"—this fancy-mouthed interloper came along," Rogan interjected, clearly highly amused. "Mr. Deal, you paid to be part of Blackbeard's crew for a weekend. Did you state that you wanted the fantasy to be permanent?"

That brought Deal up short, and he jammed his hands into the pockets of his worn denim jacket and scowled at the floor before growling grudgingly, "Naw."

"Then we gave you exactly what you asked for," Leslie said with a smile, "and I'm very glad you enjoyed yourself so thoroughly. You'll have lots of good memories and some great stories to tell your friends."

Boxed in, Deal gave up and agreed with her; to help placate him, she gave him a coupon for a free dinner at the hotel. He finally shuffled out, leaving the threesome alone, and Julie breathed a great sigh of relief. "I thought for sure we had a lawsuit on our hands."

"Ach, 'twas nothin'," Rogan teased, exaggerating his slight Irish accent, and grinned engagingly at her when she giggled. "The real test, now, is getting that blueprint to our heroes-in-waiting. I can get there in no time. Just give me the print and I'll be there and back, and you'll hardly have the time to miss me."

"I suppose you 'pop' in and out of places like Father does," said Leslie, her resigned tone carrying a hint of amusement. Rogan winked, took the blueprint and wandered out to the terrace. Julie followed a few paces behind, but when she got out there he was gone.

"He's good, Leslie," she said admiringly, strolling back into the study. "He's darn good. Also darn good-_looking."_

"He's a darn pain in the keister," Leslie muttered, but she couldn't quite hide a smile. "Those Irish and their silver tongues. No wonder he's got you hooked, Julie MacNabb—and you being Irish too. Shame on you."

Julie stuck out her tongue. "Hey, I'm allowed to get crushes, Leslie Hamilton. Maybe even more so, considering I'm almost thirty-nine and he's the first guy that's interested me that much. And I think he likes me too—I've seen him eyeing me. You think you've got a monopoly on love with that prince of yours? It's my turn, and I'm _waaaaaaay_ overdue!"

Leslie had to laugh. "My apologies. First let's see if he's as good as his word."

In a few minutes Rogan returned empty-handed. "They're off and running. My guess is, they'll be done and have Worth in custody by midnight. That should do it." He turned to Julie and said, "I hear you have a bed-and-breakfast inn and that it has a sterling reputation. Think I could curl up in a corner tonight?"

"I think I can find a rollaway cot for you," said Julie, looking very pleased, "if you don't mind sleeping in the laundry room."

"Not a bit." Rogan beamed. "Anything so I can be there for one of those breakfasts that's been so highly praised on the island website." He offered Julie his arm, and she took it, throwing Leslie a smug grin and a huge wink over her shoulder as Rogan escorted her out. Leslie smiled and shook her head to herself before letting her mind turn to Roarke and wondering when—she refused to entertain the option of _if_—he would wake up.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- February 1, 1999

Austin Deal was still grumbling a little about the end of his fantasy, but he responded cheerily enough to Leslie's and Julie's farewells and loped aboard the plane, pinching the rear end of one of the native girls on his way and sending up a flurry of indignant squeals. Julie and Leslie could hear him cackling as he disappeared inside the cabin and rolled their eyes at each other, turning with relief to the car that bore the bounty hunters.

"You guys really did us an invaluable service by getting Oscar Worth into the hands of the authorities," Leslie said gratefully. "I'll talk to my father about having you come back for a real vacation, on us."

Mark Roquemore grinned. "Don't worry about it, Leslie," he assured her. "For us, this _was_ a vacation. But thanks for the offer, and heck, one day we might take you up on it." He and his companions shook hands with Leslie and Julie and traded goodbyes, then strode up the ramp and boarded the seaplane.

"Well, we pulled it off somehow," Julie remarked, watching the plane taxi through the lagoon towards the ocean. "We got really lucky, thanks to Rogan."

"Yeah, Rogan," Leslie murmured, frowning slightly. The car came around to pick them up, and they were returned to their respective homes, each lost in her own thoughts. Julie had a big smile on her face at the prospect of seeing Rogan again; but Leslie, deeming the budding romance as secondary, was determined to pin Rogan down once and for all and get the answers she wanted. How did this guy know so much about what was going on around here?

At the main house she detoured upstairs for another check on Roarke, and her eyes popped with sudden hope when she saw that he was awake. "Hi, Father!" she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low in the quiet room.

Roarke smiled at her. "Come in, Leslie," he invited. His voice was not strong, but it was clear, and still the same warm baritone Leslie had grown to depend on so many years before. She slipped in and stepped hesitantly across the room, indulging her curiosity for the first time. Roarke's bedroom was somewhat larger than her own and contained a minimum of furniture—but those furnishings were massive pieces that looked to Leslie's inexperienced eye like valuable antiques. There was the bed, a large elegant chest of drawers, a rolltop desk and chair, and a nightstand. In addition to the large dormer that faced the side of the house, there was a second small window at the back of the room, to the left of the door and beside the chest of drawers. Both windows were outfitted with small-slatted white shutters.

Roarke's quiet chuckle brought her attention back to him, and he teased, "Have you satisfied your curiosity now?"

Leslie felt her face heat with embarrassment but grinned back, stopping to stand beside the bed. "Well, you can't exactly blame me," she said, and he nodded slightly, dark eyes twinkling. "So how are you feeling?"

"Somewhat groggy," Roarke admitted. "I've missed an entire weekend, have I not? I don't believe I have slept that much in a great many years." He noticed her shifting her weight. "Sit down, child, sit down."

Gingerly Leslie settled onto the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. "You did miss a lot," she said. "But the bounty hunters who came this weekend managed to ferret out Oscar Worth. He's going up for international trial on a neutral piece of land, so he had to be deported."

"Excellent," said Roarke. "That is extremely gratifying to hear—thank you, Leslie. Overall, how did you manage this weekend?"

"Better than I thought," said Leslie candidly. "Julie helped out, and for a while I really thought we were going to blow it. And then serendipity stepped in."

Roarke's gaze sharpened and seemed to pin her to the spot. "Rogan Callaghan," he said, stunning her into speechlessness. "I wish to see him."

Leslie's mouth worked for a moment; she could barely spit any words out. "H-how…"

Roarke's hand on the covers tightened almost painfully around hers; she hadn't even realized he had grasped it. "Bring him here, Leslie," he insisted, his voice beginning to fade. "It's imperative."

She heard the weakening and sat up in alarm, all questions forgotten. "I'll get him, I promise," she said fervently. "Just rest, don't wear yourself out." She waited for his slight nod of confirmation before rising and rushing out of the room.

Following a hunch, she ran over to Julie's bed and breakfast; and sure enough, there was Rogan, sunbathing beside the pool. He opened his eyes when her shadow fell on him, blocking the sun's warmth. "Ah…greetings, Leslie."

"I hope Julie knows you're here," Leslie said.

"Aye, that she does. She's given me a room here for as long as I want it. She's out at the moment though—what can I do for you?"

"You can come back to the main house with me," Leslie said. "Father's awake and wants to see you."

"Ah," said Rogan without surprise, "so he does know I'm here. Well now, perhaps later. I'm to take Julie out this evening and I'm just waiting for her."

Leslie glared at him. "You have the entire day in front of you. I think you can spare some of it to fill Father's request." Her eyes grew hard. "Or are you _hoping_ the disease will kill him?"

Rogan sat up. "You're a hard one, lass."

"I want to save my father's life. Is that such a terrible thing?" Leslie demanded.

Rogan raked a hand through his black hair. "I'm not saying—"

"I don't care what you did or didn't say. You have too many secrets and you know far too much for someone who's never set foot on the island before," Leslie broke in, her voice rising. "I'm fed up with your beating around the bush and uttering all these cryptic statements. I've had it with your refusal to explain yourself, and I'm not letting up on you till you start talking!"

Rogan stared at her in astonishment. "You've a very low opinion of me, haven't you?"

"There's still time to change it," Leslie said. "Coming?"

Shrugging, Rogan got to his feet and pulled on a T-shirt, then followed Leslie back to the main house. Neither of them spoke till Leslie tapped on Roarke's bedroom door and eased it open. Roarke opened his eyes and gave a faint nod, and she entered with Rogan trailing her.

"Welcome, Rogan," Roarke said, almost inaudibly.

Rogan nodded once in deference, looking humble for the first time Leslie had seen since his arrival. "Hello, sir."

"There is a tonic," Roarke began in a labored whisper. "There should be a little left in the cellar. You'll know the label, Rogan—take Leslie with you so that she'll learn to recognize it as well. Please bring it here, and quickly."

"Immediately," Rogan said without hesitation. "Come, Leslie." She shot Roarke a bewildered look; his weak smile gave her only enough reassurance to rush out after the departing Rogan.

In the usually-forbidden cellar, Rogan began a systematic search of one of the shelves, while Leslie stood by feeling inadequate and absurdly left out. Seeing her discomfort, Rogan paused and smiled. "Forgive me," he said. "Here's what we're looking for." He found a pencil and scratch pad and hastily sketched a bottle and label, then made several deliberate marks on the label that to Leslie looked like doodles. "Here. I know those symbols mean nothing to you, but take a careful look at them. You must find a bottle whose label bears markings that exactly match these."

Dubiously she accepted the drawing, examined the loops and spirals that constituted the message on the label, and crossed the room to start her search there. Naturally, Rogan was faster than she, but somehow she was the one who found the lone bottle bearing a precise match for Rogan's drawing. "This is it!"

Rogan half-ran across the room and compared the label and the drawing, then eyed Leslie with new respect. "Very nice work," he said.

She shrugged self-deprecatingly and tilted the bottle. Its contents sloshed around and she bit her lip. "I don't think there's much in here," she said uneasily.

"A little's better than none," Rogan replied. "Let's go, quick now."

They delivered the tonic to Roarke, who directed Rogan to pour exactly five milliliters of it into the glass on the bedside table, then asked Leslie to help him ingest it. She realized he could barely muster the strength to lift his arm, and held the glass to his lips, tears filling her eyes. Roarke noticed and winked solemnly at her; her attempt at a return smile was a dismal failure.

When Roarke closed his eyes, Rogan gently nudged Leslie and she preceded him out, wiping at her eyes. In the hallway Rogan sighed deeply and mumbled, "If we could just get the cure out of—"

Leslie shot up straight and seized his shoulders. "There's a _cure?"_ she shrieked. "How do you know? Why didn't you say anything? Dammit, Rogan Callaghan, _who the hell are you?"_

Rogan raised his hands, as if he sensed she'd hit her limit and would tolerate no more stalling. "All right, Leslie, all right—let's just go to the study, and I'll explain everything."

They retreated downstairs and each took a chair in front of the desk; then Leslie glared expectantly at Rogan, who cleared his throat. "To begin with, I'm a blood relative of your father. My father is his first cousin, though I grant you'd hardly know it. My father and yours look nothing alike, and they were raised in different parts of the world: your father in several different Latin countries, and mine in the British Isles. His name is also Roarke. Da was briefly involved with an Irish lady who eventually bore me—they were never married, which is why my surname is Callaghan. I was raised in Ireland, and I didn't meet Da till I was about 14. Something about him put me off; he has a hard edge. But I do remember a time ages back when the family all got along famously, despite the assorted branches that were scattered across the planet. Later Da had some manner of falling-out with your father, and they lost touch. Generally I stay away from Da, since I don't like this idea he has that there's some sort of rivalry going between him and your father. I think it's all in Da's head. Lately Da's been running a lovely little island in the South Atlantic, and I was given to understand that he's dabbled in fantasy-granting, though I daresay he handles it quite differently to your father."

"Okay," said Leslie, avidly absorbing his narrative. "How do you know there's a cure?"

"Let me back up a bit," Rogan said. "How did your father contract the bone-eating disease, do you know? Was he in contact with anyone who might have had it?"

Leslie's hand flew to her mouth. "Paola," she gasped. "Paola was here not three weeks ago…and she almost destroyed both of us."

Rogan's face grew alarmed and he sat forward. "Paola was on this island? Ach, Leslie! If she gave it to him, then we haven't much time. I was on Da's island when she arrived there on the 15th. She was ranting and carrying on about who knows what…she spoke Italian, so I don't know what she was saying. She died just two days later, Leslie—she was in the final stages of the disease when she was here."

"Oh God," moaned Leslie. "She did it on purpose."

"Apparently. Da had known her for years, it turned out, and he always thought she was daft and quite power-mad. Leslie, listen to me: your father is as ill as he is because when the disease is transmitted sexually, the stage the carrier is in determines the strength of the infection in the receptor. Paola was so close to death, it gave your father a limited lifespan as well." He caught himself. "I see your face. Leslie, it must have been transmitted sexually. The only other way to contract it is by being born to an infected mother. Paola must have truly seduced your father to have succeeded in infecting him."

"She tricked him," Leslie said angrily. "She gained control over his mind for a few days, and if she hadn't eventually gotten too certain of herself and started concentrating on trying to eliminate me, neither he nor I might be alive now. Afterward, Father told me she was one of his people."

"Unfortunately, she was that," concurred Rogan, shaking his head.

"Then what's the cure?" Leslie asked.

Rogan winced and admitted, "I don't know. Only one person on earth knows—and it's my father. Seems he did a great deal of chemical experimenting in past decades and, somewhere down the line, managed to cook up a cure. But he refuses to divulge it."

"Well, we have to get it out of him," Leslie said stonily. "I don't care what rivalry he thinks he has with Father. He has an obligation to give out the cure if he knows it."

Rogan thought about it. "I don't know what sort of success we might have if we try this, but I think we can at least pique his curiosity. I know you don't have enough knowledge or experience to run the island, at least not the fantasy-granting end of the business. Let the vacationers continue to come, but make an announcement on the island website that fantasies are being put off till further notice. After that, we'll just have to wait."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- February 9, 1999

It was a tranquil Tuesday morning when the tall man with close-cropped white hair stepped off the charter and descended the ramp. He was dressed in an ordinary black business suit and had a hard, almost cruel face that at the moment bore a small, mean, covetous smile. His eyes were a sharp, icy blue, and there seemed to be the hint of a perpetual scowl on his face. He barely noticed the other passengers, all happy tourists bearing suitcases and ready for a good time, brushing past him.

Without warning he reached out and snagged a native girl as she was hurrying by. "Excuse me," he said in a chilly British accent. "Where is the main house?"

The girl eyed him, leaning perceptibly away from him. "Follow that lane," she said, "and you'll come out onto the Ring Road—the paved coastal road. Turn right and keep going till you see a dirt lane on your left. Follow that and it'll take you to the main house."

"Thank you," he said and released her, smiling to himself in amusement when she broke into an all-out run. He took his time, ambling along in the direction the native girl had pointed out to him, taking in the beautiful tropical scenery as he walked. It was a good half hour before he rounded the bend in the lane and got his first glimpse of the main house, which actually stopped him in his tracks. It was a far cry from his own ultra-modern glass-festooned dwelling, all Victorian elegance and ornate scrolled woodwork. _Seems P.Q. hasn't done so badly for himself, then,_ he mused, studying the house. _He always did have fussy taste, though. Still, if he could afford to have this place built for himself…_ He shook his head and climbed the steps, crossing the porch and knocking smartly on the door.

When it opened, he was roundly surprised to see his own son standing there. "Well, well, well," Rogan said lazily, eyeing him. "So you decided to come then, eh?"

"If I'd known you were here, perhaps I'd have arrived sooner," the older man said caustically. "Let me in, Rogan, or have you moved in?"

"I'm merely helping with some of the business here," Rogan said calmly, stepping back to give his father access. "I think you need to speak with the lady of the house."

"The who?" Father and son stopped in the foyer as the former beheld Leslie, sitting behind the desk writing checks to pay bills. She looked up and stared at the newcomer, her eyes narrowing slightly, her body stiffening in reflex.

"This is my father," Rogan told her, "Mr. H.R. Roarke. And this, Da, is Miss Leslie Hamilton—your cousin's daughter."

"Bah," spat H.R. Roarke, scowling. "You aren't my cousin's daughter by a long shot. Who precisely are you?"

"I _am_ his daughter," Leslie said coldly, "even if I am adopted."

The white-haired man peered at her, then shrugged. "Adopted. Hah. Well, so this is P.Q.'s domain, is it? And just where is he?"

"Who's P.Q.?" Leslie asked.

"My cousin," came the reply. "That's what we used to call him when he was a little boy…though that was eons ago. Where is he?"

"Indisposed," said Leslie shortly. "What exactly do you want?"

Rogan cleared his throat. "Before the temperature in here drops any further, maybe we'd better take a bit of a stroll, Da. Leslie's busy, and her father isn't up to any visitors."

"So where have you been?" the older man asked his son once they'd cleared the porch of the main house. "Cal told me right before he departed that he and Harry saw you on the island, just when that wretched Paola dropped in and died on us."

"I hope you buried her at least," Rogan said dryly.

His father ignored this. "Why didn't you come to see me?"

"Why should I?" Rogan countered.

"Filial duty, perhaps?" the father offered pointedly.

"It would be a duty and nothing more," Rogan said.

His father rolled his eyes. "I never quite understood you anyway, Rogan, but this really takes the cake. I haven't seen you in too many years; then you have the audacity to set foot on my island and leave without visiting me? Tell me what was behind that!"

Rogan said calmly, "I almost did, Da, but I met Cal and Harry first…and they clued me in on the most recent events. I found it very interesting that your copycat business tanked and you were obligated to release Cal and Harry from whatever peculiar imprisonment you forced upon them. I liked them right enough—personable blokes, they were. But that Ariel positively spooks me. What is she, your replacement for Mum?"

"Leave Ariel out of this," his father ordered. "So Harry and Cal 'explained' things to you, did they? Leave it to them to put their own spin on the story. Frankly, I can't say I'm sorry that the fantasy business folded…though Ariel put up a great fuss. For some reason she enjoyed it. But the problem is, running that island like that turned out to be a singular drag. I simply hated the work orders…no picking and choosing…"

Rogan grinned sardonically and remarked, "Translation: your customers were hauled in off the street by force and _sent_ to your island, whether they wanted to go or not—whereas here, people queue up to have their fantasies granted. And that's what really got to you, Da, wasn't it?"

His father gave him a long, sour stare before demanding, "Is there MacNabb in your mum's family tree, boy? You've a very frightening clarity of perception. I merely wanted a retreat, but one would think I was being punished for some transgression. The whole venture lasted not even six months. Possibly that was all the punishment Cal and Harry needed, or else—"

"Or else nobody wanted fantasies with gruesome endings forced upon them by a dour man who took pleasure in tormenting his guests," Rogan broke in. "If you needed to know why I don't visit, there's your answer. You've changed since I first met you—at one time, you were happy, and then you invented this rivalry with your cousin."

"P.Q. always had everything handed to him!" the older man barked resentfully. "He had that smarmy old-world charm that used to attract every woman in sight, made everyone love him without question…and how he ever got into this position, I just don't understand. His overly polite manner, especially to people who are rude to him, just infuriates me. He won't raise his voice, he won't lose his temper, he never runs out of patience…or those damned good-guy white suits." Rogan snickered, earning a glare from his father. "Only one thing I ever bested him in—childbearing."

Rogan stopped dead on the trail and gaped at his father with a look of exaggerated horror. "Are you telling me that it was really you and not Mum who carried me in your gut for nine months? Someone had better tell the media about the world's first pregnant man."

"I'd backhand you like a tennis ball if it wouldn't shatter the dignified image I've been cultivating," his father growled disgustedly. "You've much too smart a mouth on you. What I _meant_ is that you are my blood offspring, and it can be proven. All P.Q. seems to have been able to manage is the adoption of an ordinary human girl. What good is she to him? When he kicks off, there's no way this island can continue to operate as Fantasy Island under her direction. She needs powers that she'll never have and can't hope to learn about, much less acquire. Have to wonder if P.Q. was unable to father a child if he had to resort to adoption to perpetuate his line."

"A fine one you are, Da, to scorn adoption," Rogan fired back. "What about Miranda? Or have you disowned her lately?" That got him another glare from his father, but no rebuttal, and Rogan shook his head. "You've sunk to pettiness and common jealousy, and you seem to have lost your conscience. I think you came here with the hope that your cousin will die and you'll have the dubious privilege of watching it happen. You know, Da, you think you've got your secrets…but I know about the cure you insist on withholding. Do you like death so much that you prefer to let an already dwindling population be decimated all the further by the bone-eating disease? Our people's numbers are growing ever fewer on this odd, abused little planet. You seemed happy enough to watch Paola die…"

"She was too far gone for the cure to save her," snapped his father.

"Be that as it may—there are surely others with the disease, including your cousin. Apparently, your idea of ending this alleged rivalry is to outlive him. You claim to be outraged that I never visit you. Well, let me give you something to think about, Da. Either you give us the cure, or you'll never see me again as long as either of us lives…and that's a beastly long time." Rogan strode away in the direction of Julie's B&B without looking back, while his father stared angrily after him.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- February 9, 1999

In the week between the shutdown of the island's primary business and the arrival of the man who claimed to be Roarke's cousin and Rogan's father, Leslie had taken on the tasks associated with everyday household operation, as well as the occasional dust-up that exceeded the ability of the regular staff to resolve; and atop all that, she was taking diligent care of her father. She had learned to measure out precisely five milliliters of the tonic per dose, once a day, and went back and forth frequently for water and assorted medical items provided to her by Fernando. Sometimes Tabitha delivered them, bringing her twenty-month-old daughter Cristina; she and Leslie would visit for a few minutes, and Tabitha would collect an update on Roarke's condition and walk out looking sad. Leslie hadn't seen the rest of her friends in all that time; she had begun to wonder if they were afraid to come, for fear Roarke's disease was contagious. Only Tabitha seemed to know better. _They probably depend on her for all the gossip,_ she thought, knowing she was being uncharitable but too tired and too worried about Roarke to care.

Unbeknownst to her, but obvious to Tabitha, Leslie had begun to look perpetually weary. She always seemed to have the shadows of dark circles under her eyes, and she was beginning to lose weight from her fear and its resulting sleeplessness. Mariki fussed over her and made her eat, slinging all manner of half-serious threats at her till Leslie caved in and ate just to make her shut up.

But she never noticed her own condition; it was Roarke's that consumed her every waking moment. Sometimes she wasn't sure it was really her father in that bed. He, too, was losing weight, and he looked quite frail and fragile, lying there in the bed barely able to hold her hand when she sat with him. Leslie tried to hide her tears over his gradual wasting away, but she suspected he knew, in that inimitable way of his. She might cry in private, out of his sight, but she often had red-rimmed eyes when she saw him: and he never missed anything. But he pretended not to notice; at least, he refrained from mentioning it.

Late that afternoon she came up with a fresh pitcher of cold water for him, carrying for herself a glass of orange juice that Mariki insisted she drink to keep herself fortified. His smile was faint but discernible when she opened the door and slipped in, till he noticed the juice. "And what would that be?" he asked, his voice sounding nearly normal for a change.

"Mariki said I need to drink this," Leslie told him, setting the pitcher onto the nightstand and lowering herself carefully onto the bed. Roarke's amused eyes followed her movement. "It's probably calcium-fortified, and I wouldn't put it past Mariki to have ground up a couple of those horse-gagging vitamin pills and mixed them in to sneak even more nutrients into my system."

He grinned at that, and she relaxed fractionally. "She's merely taking care of you, Leslie, since you seem to be obsessed with caring for me," he observed.

"Well, you need taking care of," she said. "I won't let you go without a fight, and I'm going to give this miserable disease the biggest fight I know how. By the way…some guy who claims to be Rogan's father and your cousin showed up on the island this morning. I don't trust that man as far as I can spit at him."

"Not H.R.!" Roarke exclaimed, looking astonished.

Leslie's hand halted on its way toward the orange-juice glass. "You mean…he was telling the truth? He really is your cousin?"

"Yes, he most certainly is, my child," Roarke said, "although it's been decades at least since I last saw him. And he is indeed Rogan's father. H.R. and I haven't been on speaking terms for far longer than you've been alive, so I find it nothing short of miraculous that he has come here."

"I find it morbid," Leslie commented with a scowl, lifting the glass. "He had one heck of a nasty attitude when he came here. If you ask me, he's here for a death watch, in the hope of taking over the island after…after…" She shook her head violently and left the sentence in the ether, taking a long draft of the juice.

"After I die?" Roarke suggested gently. "There is the very real possibility of that coming to pass, Leslie, and you must try to face it, even if you can't accept it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Leslie said stonily; then her face changed. "Father, Rogan said there's a cure, and that his father is the only person who knows it."

Roarke went absolutely motionless, his dark eyes sharp and intense on her. They filled with a shocked light that seemed to suffuse his entire face. "There is a cure?"

"According to Rogan, yes. But if your cousin with the attitude doesn't tell us what it is, it won't make a bit of difference." Leslie glared unseeingly out the window through a mist of tears. "I think that man's despicable for withholding something so vital. I don't care who he's related to. It's just plain unconscionable."

"I agree with you there," observed Rogan's voice from the doorway, and Roarke and Leslie both focused on him. "I don't mean to intrude on you, but I came up to let you know that Da's here. Seems Leslie beat me to it."

Roarke smiled a welcome and asked, "Tell me, Rogan, do you have any idea how H.R. happened to find a cure?"

"Supposedly he found it himself, through a lot of chemical experiments that probably included amakarna," Rogan said. "Since amakarna is a palliative for the bone-eating disease, it stands to reason that it could contribute toward a cure—at least, that's my reasoning. I'm sure Da thought along those same lines. But there obviously was something missing, and if he's found it, he refuses to share it. I don't know what he's waiting for."

"Unfortunately, that sounds like the H.R. I last spoke with," Roarke said regretfully.

"What's the H.R. stand for?" Leslie wanted to know.

Roarke only smiled, but behind her Rogan said, "Personally I think it stands for Hellraiser, and he's never said anything to disprove it." Roarke and Leslie both laughed. "Well, I've a dinner date with Julie this evening, so I'll just be on my way. Be well, uncle." He gave a casual wave and left the room; they could hear his whistling fading as he trotted down the steps and left the house.

"Not without that cure," Leslie muttered, the tears returning all at once. Roarke reached up with supreme effort and caressed her cheek with one finger.

"Shh, child," he coaxed her softly. "You've reached the limits of your endurance; I can see it. You need to sleep, Leslie, and I won't tolerate any argument from you. Your emotions are right on the surface, and you're swaying on your feet. Finish that juice and then lie down—right here on the bed. I don't even want you to expend the energy it would take you to go to your own room."

She smiled a little and docilely drank the rest of the orange juice, then replaced the glass on the bedside table and curled up atop the blankets beside Roarke. In scant seconds she had dropped into a deep sleep; Roarke stroked her hair in slow, feeble motions, his mind moving at lightning speed, processing the revelation his daughter had thrust upon him.

"Well, well, what have we here? What a sickly-sweet scene of domestic tranquility," mocked a voice from the doorway, a voice Roarke had not heard in unimaginably long. He focused on the sneering man who had just come into the room. "My God, P.Q., you look like utter hell."

Unexpectedly Roarke began to laugh quietly. "P.Q.! No one has called me that since I was a child. Well, H.R., and what brings you to my island?"

"Your island, indeed," H.R. snorted. "I suppose this little piece of heaven just fell into your lap, like so much else across the years."

Roarke eyed him in speculation, recalling that his cousin had somehow developed an inexplicable grudge against him and long ago stopped speaking with him. There were not many members of the extended Roarke clan left on the planet; in fact, as far as he knew, he, H.R. and Rogan were the only ones remaining. "I hope you haven't come to pick another fight over nothing," Roarke said.

H.R. peered back at him, his frown thunderous. "How typical of you to think it's nothing, P.Q. You certainly have made a name for yourself. Where did you come by this island, anyhow? And just what have you been doing that you can't seem to produce any children? Too busy, or don't you have the ability?"

"Quite nosy, aren't we," Roarke remarked. "My apparent lack of offspring was a choice, not an affliction. In any case, I have Leslie."

"Oh, that little mortal girl." H.R. studied Leslie with a contemptuous gaze. "Is she really the best you can do? At least I can boast Rogan, even though he seems to have turned into rather a renegade. I never see the boy anymore. Who on earth is going to run your island after you're gone, cousin? That child lying there by your side can't do it. She isn't one of the clan, and you know it's impossible for any ordinary Earth human to do it. Why, for the most part, they don't even believe in it. It's a wonder any of us have survived to the present day. When I think of how many of the clan were burned at the stake as witches by ignorant, stupid humans, I want nothing more than to go back in time and give them the same treatment. And I could, too…which is almost enough in itself."

"But you wouldn't," Roarke murmured.

"Wouldn't I? You can hardly imagine how often I've been tempted. The fates know Ariel's tried often enough to talk me into it."

"So what stopped you?" Roarke parried. "You've always struck me as the type who simply rushes in without thinking. Perhaps that's the reason we are in our present respective positions. Don't think I'm unaware of what has been occurring recently. I know full well you tried your hand at fantasy-granting, and it appears you have been less than successful, particularly since you are standing here now."

H.R. rolled his eyes and looked away, and Roarke smiled inwardly. "Maybe, cousin, I still have some conscience left. Drat the thing anyway." He gave his head a shake and focused on Roarke again. "But you haven't answered my question. What's the fate of this island after you're gone? My son could take over, I suppose."

Roarke observed, "I suspect that's your goal, now that you're convinced I am dying. I might remind you that if I do pass on, it should weigh on that conscience you claim to still possess—since I am told that you've managed to find a cure."

H.R. cocked an eyebrow. "Hmm…so that little girl of yours found out and spilled the beans to you, did she? What would you give to have it, I wonder?"

"I won't beg for it," Roarke told him quietly. "Should I die, Leslie will inherit the island, and if she chooses to continue to run it in its current capacity, I will see to it that she knows how. She is my sole beneficiary, and that is how the situation will remain."

H.R. had been gawking at him. "You won't beg for your own life? You truly are a strange one, cousin. I'm sure your daughter would willingly get on her knees and beg for the cure, if I told her to." He smirked. "It's quite lovely to have the power for a change."

Roarke shook his head a little, thoroughly bewildered. "I fail to understand why you think there is a rivalry between us, H.R. You insist that I have had, and I quote, 'everything handed to me'. You're wrong, so very wrong that it pains me to realize it, but I won't bother trying to convince you. You've persuaded yourself somehow that you've been cheated out of things that have apparently come to me. I have worked for a great many years to obtain what I have, and there is a purpose to the work I do. And before you ask, I should inform you that Fantasy Island was originally not my idea. When I first acquired this island, it was with the intention to use it as a retreat from the rest of the world. It was in a time of great superstition and persecution, when anyone even suspected of witchcraft was killed in the cruelest possible ways, and I knew this place was so remote that it would be safe from detection for some time. And that is in fact how I lived for quite a few years, until I was approached about turning it into the business that I currently run."

"Who approached you?" H.R. asked.

Roarke closed his eyes briefly; when he spoke again his voice was perceptibly weaker. "It's not important that you know that. I will tell you, however, that the idea appealed, and I have found it most rewarding."

"Really. And where does that child come in?" H.R. pressed.

"She is an orphan with no living relatives, and came into my care as a young teenager. Leslie was merely my ward for several years, but I formally adopted her after she graduated from high school. Tell me, H.R., why are you so scornful of my daughter? It's my understanding that you also have an adopted daughter, so I can only assume this is spite. I doubt Miranda is any more endowed with our clan's abilities than Leslie is."

H.R. glared at him, but Roarke seemed not to notice. "No, she's not," H.R. growled. "But my son is, and it seems to me that he's the logical choice to inherit this island once you've shuffled off this vale of tears."

Roarke was silent for so long that H.R. actually came farther into the room and leaned over the end of the bed to scrutinize him more carefully. "If you think you will gain control of my island so easily, you had better think again," Roarke said at last. "As I told you, Leslie is sole inheritor, and no court in the world will support any attempt by you to contest my wishes. I cannot stop you from watching me die, but I certainly _can_ stop you from taking over my property. For that matter, I can have you removed from the island altogether, since this is sovereign territory."

H.R. looked astounded. "You are your own country? Bah! You're saying you can deport me, then! I suppose that was a provision given you by whoever 'approached' you about this business of yours."

Roarke merely smiled at that. After a moment he suggested in an almost inaudible voice, "Tell me about your business. Despite your covetousness in regard to my island, you don't seem to have actually enjoyed granting fantasies."

Grudgingly H.R. admitted, "No, as a matter of fact I hated it. I just wanted a retreat, the same as you. I also wanted someone to do the heavy chores for me, so that I could live a life of leisure…thus Cal and Harry. But we all found ourselves in service to someone, or something. Perhaps the same someone, or something, that came to you. Quite frankly, though, my enterprise never did come anywhere close to yours for sheer popularity. Rogan probably put it best. He said that my customers were forced to come to my island, whereas they eagerly sign onto a waiting list to visit yours. In any case, Harry and Cal seemed more than happy to leave last week. All I have left is Ariel." He smiled faintly. "Dear Ariel… Would you like to know more about her, cousin?"

He waited for a response, but Roarke was silent. In fact, as H.R. shortly ascertained, his cousin's strength had given out and he was as sound asleep as his daughter. For a long time he stood there staring at Roarke and Leslie, battling a very unwelcome attack of sheer envy. Miranda had a terminal case of amnesia, and Rogan chose to steer clear of him; so it was a bitter pill to swallow to see how close Roarke and Leslie were. At last, with another muttered "Bah!", he wheeled around and left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- February 9, 1999

Disgruntled and with a lot to think about, H.R. took a slow stroll along a jungle path, meandering aimlessly for a good hour, till he found himself atop a small promontory overlooking the ocean. A lone tree stood sentinel against the stiff breeze that blew ceaselessly along the clifftop, but H.R. barely noticed the wind or the strong sunlight. He was annoyed by the envy he felt over his cousin's close relationship with his only child; more than that, he was worried that Rogan seemed to be on Roarke's side in this. The kid had too much conscience for his own good, H.R. thought disgustedly.

"H.R., my dear fellow, how good it is to see you again! Finally caved in and decided to visit your long-lost cousin after all, then?"

H.R. turned around and regarded the dapper man with surprise. "Fancy meeting you here, old chap. How've you been?"

"Bored," came the reply. "Bored beyond belief…until I heard about the situation here. I suppose that's what brought you here as well."

H.R. grinned. "Mephistopheles, my good man, you do have a way of reading my mind. Am I truly that transparent?—never mind. I don't necessarily want P.Q.'s island, mind you. I'm merely fed up with that cousin of mine getting all the breaks."

"So I understand," observed Mephistopheles, gesturing to one side. "Shall we?" H.R. nodded, and the two began to wander along the clifftop. "Just what sort of shape is Roarke in, now? The website merely said the fantasy business was on hiatus due to illness."

"And what an illness," concurred H.R. "He has the bone-eating disease that's been the curse of our people for countless centuries. It's killed almost as many of us as the damned witch trials used to do in the Middle Ages, when people were even more stupid and ignorant than they are now."

Mephistopheles nodded. "Has he any hope of recovery?" H.R. frowned and said nothing, and Mephistopheles smiled. "Apparently not without the cure you discovered. So, tell me, why haven't you shared it with him? You are related, are you not?"

"Bah," muttered H.R.

Mephistopheles stopped walking and peered more closely at him. "You resent him, don't you? It would suit your wounded sensibilities perfectly to let him die. You don't _want_ to save Roarke, do you?" His face began to light up, and H.R. watched impassively. "Do you realize what this could mean to me?" He grabbed H.R.'s arms and beamed. "I've been after your cousin's soul for sheer ages, and the chase is driving me insane…but I simply must have it. Simply _must_. He has the most vexing way of eluding me. But now that he's ill and will never get well again…the opportunity is absolutely irresistible!" Mephistopheles began to cackle gleefully. "My good man, you've done me the most amazing favor! How serious is this illness? How soon can I expect to escort him home with me?"

H.R. gave him a strange look. "I don't think he has very long to live. He's been confined to bed for some time, as I understand it, and he often has barely enough strength to speak. I'd wager he won't last out the month."

"Wonderful!" cried Mephistopheles, beside himself with delight. "I have so many plans for that irritating man! I intend to make him pay for what he's done to me for all eternity, and I'll never be bored again, with Roarke to play with. You simply don't know what this means to me!"

"Are you planning to do a victory dance right here on the edge of the cliff?" H.R. asked dryly. Mephistopheles giggled deliriously.

"A celebration certainly would be in order, would it not? Ah, the things I have in mind for your cousin…I really must get back and start preparing…"

"Wait." Abruptly H.R. caught Mephistopheles' arm and stopped him cold. "Just wait one damn minute here. Just for laughs…tell me, what would it take to prevent you walking away with P.Q.'s soul?"

"Just for laughs, then," Mephistopheles said affably, too overjoyed by the looming promise of his most sought-after goal to be his usual crafty self. "All you would have to do is provide the cure, my good fellow. It's as simple as that. But you've found Roarke a thorn in your side for so long, I'm sure you won't bother."

Some distance away behind a boulder, Rogan Callaghan pushed Julie back for at least the fourth time and waved impatiently at her to keep quiet. H.R.'s and Mephistopheles' voices carried easily on the wind and he had picked up every word of their macabre conversation. Julie was outraged and trying to express it; it was all Rogan could do to keep her from shouting aloud and avoiding detection. "Julie, for God's sake shut your mouth," he hissed urgently at her. "Do you want those two to walk away with you, rather than uncle?" Julie snapped her mouth closed and crouched as far down as she could get, and he nodded sharply with approval and focused his attention on the conversation again.

"I'll admit it freely enough," H.R. said, standing there staring over the ocean without seeing it. "It would be a pleasure to get my cousin out of the picture. My fool son could have this island, since he refuses to set foot on mine, and there would be no way in hell that P.Q.'s merely-mortal daughter could run the place. And I certainly don't want it—I hated it when I was doing it. But this island would be a prize, no question about it."

"Then all you need to do is stand back and watch!" Mephistopheles crowed. "Easiest thing you've ever done! You can buy back your son's affections by giving him Roarke's island, and everyone walks away happy, including me! Not a loser in the lot!" He giggled again and added cheerily, "Except Roarke, of course."

H.R. faced him and peered oddly at him. "What is it about my cousin that makes you so greedy for his soul, anyway, old chap?"

"His very elusiveness," Mephistopheles said. "Never before have I come across someone so brilliant, so deft, so skillfully evasive. It's become a personal challenge to me to get his soul—the most glittering prize of all those I've ever collected across the millennia. To walk away with Roarke's soul would be the coup of coups. The man comes across like a saint, and he has cheated me out of not only his own soul, but quite a collection of others as well. Which is something else that irks me no end."

"I see," H.R. murmured. "I had no idea he was that good."

"Too good," Mephistopheles complained. "But you, my old friend, you can change all that. What do you say, eh?"

H.R. studied him for a moment, frowned again and turned away. "You realize this is my cousin we're speaking of, don't you? It really is rather blatant and presumptuous of you to suggest I allow you to carry him off when the damned disease does him in."

"You're not in such a hurry to save his life," Mephistopheles pointed out, and H.R.'s frown deepened. "It would save you the trouble of having to dispose of the corpse." Behind the boulder, Julie's face contorted, and Rogan clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Even H.R. shot him a pained look, and Mephistopheles shrugged. "Pardon me…the _future_ corpse. At any rate," he went on, smirking at H.R.'s eye-roll, "you need only stand back, let him die, and make way for me. I'll handle everything from then on and you won't have to worry about him at all. If you like, I'll even dispose of his daughter for you. Don't underestimate that mortal girl, H.R. The last time I came after Roarke, she was the one who saved his miserable carcass, and all I got was her birth father, who has proven to be nothing but a weeping, wailing banshee who spends every moment of every day begging his dead wife to forgive him. I have to wear earplugs when I visit that corner of hell." H.R. grinned in spite of himself, and Mephistopheles caught it. "A little respect there, H.R. I may decide to take you too, when I come to get Roarke."

H.R. laughed. "Bah…hell holds no terrors for me. Threaten me all you like, chappie, I don't care. Look…you'll have to let me sleep on this. I'm not the slightest bit sentimental, mind you, but he _is_ my cousin, in spite of everything. You've waited all this time to come and claim P.Q.; I daresay a little more waiting won't harm you. It's a very large decision."

Mephistopheles sighed deeply. "Very well…I'll give you until this coming Friday at midnight. Friday, the twelfth of February, when I will at long last claim the one thing I have coveted most in all the universe—Roarke's immortal soul. Don't let me down, old friend." The last six words came out in a deep, ominous monotone, and Mephistopheles dropped a hand heavily on H.R.'s shoulder before walking right off the cliff, leaving his anticipatory laughter curling through the air behind him.

"Rogan, are you going to let him get away with this?" Julie gasped.

"Wait here," he directed her curtly and stepped out from behind the boulder. H.R. saw him coming in his peripheral vision and faced him with surprise.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I've heard just about everything that's gone on here," Rogan said, his voice like granite. "You sicken me, Da. Making a deal with the devil to sell your cousin's soul, with hardly a second thought. Here's a thought for you. If you give uncle up to Mephistopheles, you'll guarantee yourself a life alone, because you'll never see or hear from either Miranda or me again—ever. And there's a great deal more you'll miss out on as a result. You'd better think very, very carefully about what you're going to do, for there's much more at stake here than you seem to realize." He wheeled around on one foot and marched away, collecting Julie from behind the boulder and towing her along with him while H.R. watched them retreat and tried to convince himself he really didn't care.

§ § § -- February 10, 1999

Both Roarke and Leslie slept the rest of Tuesday and straight through the night; but Leslie woke shortly after first light began to tint the eastern sky and squinted around the room, disoriented at first. A long, soft, fragile sigh drifted through the air and she suddenly remembered where she was and why she was there. The room was still too dark for her to see anything, but she reached out nonetheless, found Roarke's hand and caught it in hers, clinging for all she was worth. She heard, more than felt, his slight shift in his sleep, and his fingers twitched fractionally against her palm as if he were responding somehow. It wasn't much, but Leslie was reassured all the same, allowing her to release his hand and creep quietly from the room.

She had slept so much, and so heavily, that she knew she wouldn't be sleepy again till bedtime that night; so she retreated to her bedroom and booted up her computer to see if there was any e-mail worth looking at. Her bedroom faced east, and there was now just enough light coming through that she didn't bother turning on the bedside lamp. After a few minutes she logged onto her e-mail account and grinned ruefully to see almost fifty messages waiting for her. Most of them were from her friends; one, she noticed with surprise and delight, was from Frida Rosseby, whose busy life allowed for only sporadic contact with her Fantasy Island friends. Leslie took a few minutes to reply, congratulating Frida on the birth of her baby girl, then forwarding the message to her other friends. She pulled up the next page of messages—and, as if they were magnetically attracted, her eyes zeroed in on Christian's name in the list. Instantly she opened the message and read it with the greedy excitement of one too long denied contact with a loved one.

_My darling Leslie Rose,_

_As you have probably figured out from the simple presence of this message, I'm back home, about three weeks early. Actually, Marina and I were called back. My niece Gabriella, Arnulf's middle daughter, is getting married, for one thing, so we will be caught up in the wedding excitement for the next week. The other reason we were summoned home is that we just learned of the death of Marina's older sister, Paola._

_Marina is sad, I believe, but not especially upset. Paola, she has told me, was a haunted woman, one with many secrets and many torments. Perhaps it's as well I never met her. In any case, we got word from Marina's father, who apparently has known for only a few days himself. It seems he had no contact with Paola for quite a few years before her passing, perhaps partially due to her mental condition, as well as some manner of feud that Marina has yet to explain to me. I did notice, oddly enough, that in the most recent two weeks, the illicit trade in amakarna-derived drugs has dropped to almost nothing. I always notice news about that spice, what with the impact it's had on my life, but this time it was significant. I mentioned it in passing to Marina, who confessed then and there that Paola was in fact the ultimate and sole source of the amakarna used in drug manufacturing. Somewhere, perhaps on their father's estate, Paola had her own special greenhouses in which she grew the spice, solely for illicit purposes, and apparently had a great deal of knowledge about all the terrible things that damned spice can be perverted into. If I never hear the word "amakarna" again, I would die happy._

_But enough of that. It's good to be home again, I must admit. I am dying for news of you and Fantasy Island, my Leslie Rose. Tell me everything that's happened, will you? I hope you are well, and please give my greetings to your father. I'll be waiting to hear from you. I love you so very much._

_All my love, Christian_

The euphoria that had swept Leslie when she first began to read Christian's message drained away, and she slumped back in her chair, biting her lip. How much should she tell Christian? Truth be told, she wanted to spill out everything; she'd been under a good bit of strain for several weeks now with no one to really talk to, and there had been many a time when she had desperately wished Christian were there for her to unload on. In the last week or so, the enormous worry she'd had over Roarke had eclipsed just about everything else, and her inability to reach Christian in any way had fallen to the back of her mind.

But she knew she must reply; for all she knew, he was sitting at his computer right now watching for her message to pop up on his monitor screen. Leslie tried to figure out what she should say to him that wouldn't precipitate a blizzard of questions that she wasn't prepared to answer. If she told him about Paola's sojourn on the island, he would want to know why she had been there and what had happened during her stay—as if he could have done anything, then or now! More than that, he might ask if Paola had died there, and she'd have to tell him where it had actually happened. Then he'd want to know how she knew that, and… Leslie shuddered and shook her head. Being able to tell Christian about all this would have been a boon while it was actually happening; now it was almost unthinkable. For now she had a quandary of her own. If and when she told Christian what had been going on all this time, it would eventually come out that Roarke's cousin was here, and that he had a cure for the bone-eating disease that had killed Paola and was ravaging Marina, her father, and Roarke. And the presence of a cure could put a permanent and shattering end to Leslie's and Christian's hopes of ever being together.

Of course, Leslie thought bleakly, it was all academic. They couldn't get the cure out of H.R. anyway, so it was entirely possible that the status quo would be maintained. Unable to make a decision, she twisted around in her chair and noted the time: 5:23. Dawn had brightened the entire sky and the sun would be up within another half hour. It was still early enough that Christian could assume she was asleep right now. With a twinge of guilt, Leslie logged off and left the computer running for the moment, intent on a shower and a change of clothes. Maybe that would help her get a grip on things.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- February 10, 1999

Duly freshened, she ventured downstairs in the quiet house and was happy to hear voices in the kitchen. One sounded like a male voice, and she went to investigate. It turned out to be Rogan, cadging a picnic basket out of Mariki. "A picnic at this hour?" Mariki was asking with deep incredulity.

"Must be a breakfast picnic," Leslie suggested jokingly.

Mariki brightened. "So you're awake, Miss Leslie! You look much better this morning. How about Mr. Roarke?"

Leslie's smile dropped away and she shook her head. "He was still sleeping when I got up. I don't think there'll be any change."

Rogan said, "Unfortunately I have to agree with that. I hope you've an interest in breakfast, Leslie, as I've something to tell you."

"Shoot," Leslie said absently, inspecting the array of fruit Mariki was preparing.

"No, at the breakfast table," said Rogan firmly, in a significant tone of voice that got Leslie's attention. He gave one slow nod when she focused on him.

Slightly spooked, Leslie said, "Okay, then we can eat on the veranda. Mariki, I'll go for oatmeal and some fruit this morning…and don't forget to spike my orange juice again." This last was delivered with amused irony.

Mariki snorted. "That's the thanks I get for trying to keep you healthy! Get out to the veranda with you, Miss Leslie, and I'll have your breakfast out in no time." She took Rogan's request as well, then shooed them both out.

At the table Rogan took Roarke's usual chair, and Leslie settled into her own, watching him. "So what's the news?"

"It's not good, Leslie," Rogan told her point-blank. "Mephistopheles knows about your father's illness. I was out walking with Julie yesterday afternoon and caught the two of them deep in conversation. Apparently my father is on whatever passes for friendly terms with Mephistopheles."

Leslie slumped dejectedly in her chair and let her head fall back. "Well, isn't that just the icing on the cake," she muttered. "Trouble is, I have to admit I'm not exactly surprised by this little revelation. Mephistopheles has always been crazy beyond belief to get Father's soul, and with Father at his most vulnerable, it just figures that Mephistopheles would be hovering like the vulture he is." She sat up and regarded Rogan intensely. "Did your father actually make a deal with the devil?"

"No, they only discussed it, which is bad enough," Rogan said. "My father, damn him, told Mephistopheles he'd have to sleep on it, and Mephistopheles then set a deadline for Da to make a decision. We have till midnight Friday to try to persuade Da to hand over the secret of the cure. Otherwise, your father will die, and Mephistopheles will leap right in and make off with him before you can recite your own name."

"Father's as good as condemned," Leslie said, voice flat with hopelessness. "With this stupid jealousy your father has for him, there's no way he'd pass up the chance to get rid of his alleged rival." She closed her eyes and swallowed. "I have no appetite left." She got to her feet and walked off without looking back, and Rogan watched her go, then began to curse quietly to himself in Irish Gaelic.

‡ ‡ ‡

Early in the afternoon Roarke awoke and glanced around the room, moving only his eyes. He was only physically afflicted by his illness; his mental capabilities were as sharp as they had ever been. He judged the time to be around one-thirty or so and wondered idly where Leslie was. Something occurred to him then and he frowned slightly, then gathered himself and put all his effort into turning his head on the pillow till he could see the items atop the nightstand. The bottle of tonic for which he had sent Leslie and Rogan the week before stood near a corner of its surface, beside the teaspoon Leslie had been using to administer the daily doses. She had remarked to him on the third day that there didn't seem to be very much left in the bottle, and it was now the eleventh day since he had started taking it. Five milliliters per day was the absolute minimum dosage he could take and still get the palliative benefit. Staring at the bottle, he made out the low level of liquid within it and calculated that he might have three more days of doses left before it was gone. That in itself wasn't a problem; what worried him was that, even if Rogan knew the formula to mix up more, he didn't have all the necessary ingredients—one of which was amakarna, an item Roarke had never allowed on the island since the day he'd taken possession of it. He had always considered the stuff too dangerous to take chances with. _Now here I lie, a victim of my own folly,_ he reflected with resignation. _Perhaps it's time to tell Leslie where I placed the instructions I wrote for running the island, the first time I faced Mephistopheles after she came here. Fate seems to be suggesting that my time has come._

"What's the trouble, cousin?" he heard H.R. ask, derailing his train of thought for the time being. "You've quite the annoyed look on your face."

"Are you here to keep me company again?" asked Roarke with ironic humor, unable to muster enough strength to turn his head back and face his cousin.

H.R. laughed. "You can call it that if you want." He came into the room, pulled the chair out from the desk and settled into it, more or less within Roarke's field of vision. "You look more like hell than ever, P.Q. The bone-eating disease appears to agree with you less than anyone else I've ever seen who had it." He waited, but Roarke didn't reply. "Where's your dear devoted daughter? She seems to have abandoned you."

"I'm sure she's handling daily business," Roarke said. "Were you looking for her?"

"No, I was merely making small talk. It's not as if she can really do anything for you anyway. What's this? It looks familiar." H.R. picked up the nearly-empty tonic bottle and examined it, then quirked one eyebrow. "Well, well, it seems to me we're nearly out of cod-liver oil," he remarked with a half-sneer, half-grin.

Roarke eyed him sidelong, more out of necessity than by choice because of where H.R. was positioned in his sights. "How considerate of you to be so broken up about it," he said, for the first time showing his frustration. "You baffle me, H.R. You persist in clinging to your invented, one-sided feud, and you come here apparently for the sole purpose of tormenting me when you are well aware of my inability to defend myself with anything more than words. You make taunts about my daughter and take pleasure in watching my decline. If this is your sole reason for coming here, then I invite you to leave the island. There are far pleasanter ways for me to pass whatever time remains to me."

"Like what?" H.R. demanded, laughing. "Watching the shadows dance on the walls? Waiting for your daughter to come back up and feed you a little more of your dwindling supply of death-postponement medicine? And I have no doubt you don't have everything you need to make any more of it. Maybe that's as well, since it ultimately won't do you much good anyway. You really should have fathered a child of your own instead of taking on someone else's abandoned stray. At least then you could have had some fighting chance of leaving a real legacy."

"Another cheap shot at Leslie?" Roarke said tiredly. "Either find another subject or leave me, H.R."

"I'm only trying to understand your affinity for the girl," H.R. protested, pretending affrontery. "The least you can do is take pity on me and explain it. For that matter, you could also explain your odd attraction to earth humans in general."

"Is it so wrong to want to help those with whom we share this planet?" Roarke asked.

H.R. shrugged. "Well, if you go in for these altruistic motivations, I suppose not. Did you ever marry, P.Q.? Wasn't there ever anyone who moved you enough to make you want to spend all your days with her and get children on her?"

Roarke's gaze slipped out of focus and his dark eyes half closed with memory. "I've been very much in love with a few women in my lifetime," he said, "but I loved only one enough to marry her. And within days she was dead of a brain tumor."

"How tragic," H.R. said, mockery touching his voice. "Brain tumor? Well, we aren't afflicted by those, so it had to be another ordinary human woman. Bah, P.Q., you're the one who baffles me."

"I suspect you never gave your whole heart to a woman, or you would have no need to question me," Roarke murmured. "I loved Helena with everything I had—body, mind, soul, heart. I knew full well she was ill when I married her, but I loved her too deeply not to. I have never once regretted it." He refocused and found the strength to turn his head just enough to give his cousin a direct, challenging stare. "Can you say the same?"

For the first time H.R. looked distinctly uncomfortable, and resettled his weight uneasily in the chair. Roarke waited patiently, his gaze never wavering, and H.R. finally crumbled beneath it. "If you must know, there was Rogan's mother. It was a damn sight too many years ago, more than I really care to remember, but yes, I loved Caitriona Callaghan with everything in me. I would have married her—she must have had MacNabb, or perhaps even the blood of one of our people, in her—but…" He shrugged again and scowled. "Bah," he said halfheartedly.

Roarke's chuckle was almost inaudible, but hearty all the same. "How weak of the invincible H.R. Roarke to have to admit to something as foolish as love, hm?"

"Bah," H.R. repeated, more forcefully. "She also died, P.Q. …of tuberculosis, believe it or not. Consumption, they called it back then. I could have easily fixed the problem for her, but by the time I knew about it, it was too late and I found myself saddled with her son to raise. He was fourteen at the time and had no knowledge of our people. It seems Caitriona neglected to inform him that he was a Roarke, never mind educating him of the abilities he inherited as a result of his parentage. I had to explain a great many things to Rogan, but I must admit, he learned well. At least Caitriona had taught him not to be superstitious, like so many others in those days." His ice-blue eyes were looking at some distant memory, and Roarke observed him with open interest. "She was a lovely girl really. I knew there was something different about her, I didn't think she could possibly have been a mere human from the way she so easily accepted who I was and what I could do. Maybe she was an off-shoot of another of the clans—I always thought she must have been, from her attitude. I wanted to marry her…she consumed me utterly. I never lost myself that way before or after her." H.R. snapped back into the present all at once and regarded Roarke with an annoyed look. "What on earth was the point of making me relive all that?"

"Mere curiosity," Roarke replied mildly. "I admit to wondering whether a heart still beat within you. Apparently it does, which is gratifying to know."

H.R. rolled his eyes and remarked, "You've been a sentimental fool all your life, P.Q. It must come from being raised in Latin countries where they let emotions rule the day."

Roarke's dark eyes lit with reminiscence, and he said softly, "The warmth of the people drew my parents in and suffused my entire childhood. Oh, those days, those places… the color, the vibrancy, the very _life_! The atmosphere is wholly different from the one your parents chose to raise you in. The cultures in which I grew up shaped my character every bit as much as my parents did."

"As I said, a sentimental fool." One of H.R.'s eyebrows stretched towards his hairline. "I suppose that's why you were so easily persuaded to raise that human girl. Bleeding heart that you are, you ignored her inferiority."

Roarke's gaze lost all warmth and his expression all animation, and his regard became stone-cold, his eyes seeming to deepen to a frigid black. When he spoke again, his voice was deliberate, steely with something that even H.R. dared not defy. "Leave my house at once, and don't return here again. I will no longer tolerate your prejudice." His cousin stared at him in speechless surprise, and Roarke lost what little patience he had left. The word exploded out of him in one stentorian command. _"GO!"_

Moving in slow motion, gaping at Roarke all the while, H.R. got up, returned the chair to its proper place and quietly exited the room. Behind him, his cousin, thoroughly depleted, went limp in the bed and fell instantly into a comatose slumber.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- February 10, 1999

Downstairs in the study, Leslie had just entered the house from completing a few errands that had absolutely had to be run, and stopped short in the middle of the study when she saw H.R. descending the stairs. H.R. paused two-thirds of the way down when he in turn spotted her. "Where were you?" he asked.

"Handling some essentials. What were you doing here, torturing Father? I actually heard him shout at you," Leslie said, eyeing him with enormous distrust.

H.R. cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. "I only wished to reacquaint myself with him," he said.

"If that's Father's reaction, then I don't think very much of your idea of getting reacquainted," Leslie said, going to the computer and bringing up the e-mail account that had been set up for business purposes. "I'm going to have to check on him."

"Don't bother," said H.R., watching her sign into the account and scan the accumulated messages. "He's asleep, I should think. What are you about over there?"

"E-mail," Leslie replied. She went still when she noticed Christian's name among the dozens of them waiting for responses, and sat heavily in the chair at the computer desk, her head falling into her hand. "Oh God, I forgot about Christian…"

"Christian who?" H.R. came down the remaining steps and paused behind the chair, peering over her shoulder at the e-mail. She had left the cursor on the sender's name, so that it was highlighted in red, making it stand out from the other names in dark blue and easily pointing out the message in question. "Well, well, well. None other than Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö, eh?" He straightened then and snapped his fingers, as if having just recalled something important. "Oh, that's right! The same prince who's married to Marina, younger sister of the late Paola." Leslie sat up and twisted in her chair to stare warily at him. "I know the whole story. Paola herself spilled everything before she died. She was positively outraged that her brother-in-law loves you rather than his own wife."

"Are you really sure you know the whole story?" Leslie wanted to know, rising to meet him on an equal level. "If you heard it all from Paola, then you got a hopelessly biased version of it. What _do_ you know?"

H.R. studied her with interest for a moment or two before shrugging in a falsely magnanimous manner and offering, "Well, I've plenty of time, it would seem. Do tell; I'd like very much to hear this tangled little saga. You're quite correct; all I know is what Paola said, which essentially is that Christian loves the wrong woman."

"Christian and I fell in love several years ago when he came here to set up the island website," Leslie told him. "His brother was already trying to push him into an arranged marriage with Marina, but Christian demanded that he back off and pursued his romance with me. He asked me to marry him and I accepted, and he went back to Lilla Jordsö to break the news and start whatever proceedings were necessary to relinquish his right to the title of prince. That was when he found out that the king, his brother, had married him to Marina _in absentia_, honoring some deal their father had made with Marina's years ago in order that the royal family could continue to obtain a regular supply of amakarna. I didn't know about that till Christian and Marina managed to talk the king into allowing them to have their wedding reception here on the island—Christian deliberately set it up that way so he could tell me what had really happened. Marina came to Father and me the next day and explained that she was dying of the bone-eating disease, and asked me to wait for Christian, because she knew there was no cure. Father told me as much after she'd left." She narrowed her eyes at H.R. "Speaking of the cure…do you have some grudge against all your people, not just Father, that you refuse to reveal the big secret?"

But H.R. was staring at her curiously. "You are yet in love with the prince, I take it?"

Leslie felt her face redden a bit, but nodded determinedly. "I told both him and Marina I'd wait for him. Christian and I love each other very much…and it's my understanding that Marina's in love with someone else too. Their marriage is based on nothing more than a business contract."

H.R. shifted his stance and leaned against the front of Roarke's desk, resting one ankle over the other, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling in a pseudo-friendly way that immediately raised Leslie's suspicions. "I see, I see. A very intriguing situation here. If you love the man, then why did you react as you did to seeing a message from him?"

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Good grief, you're nosy. Didn't your mother ever teach you that's rude? If you have to know, he got back a few weeks early from a royal-duty trip, and I don't know what to tell him about everything that's been going on around here lately."

"The truth, naturally," H.R. said, sounding puzzled. "Explain to him that Paola was here, tell him she infected your father…" His voice trailed off and he leaned forward from the waist, as if scrutinizing Leslie with new inspiration. "Tell me something. Just how badly do you want your prince, Leslie? How long are you prepared to wait for him before you grow tired of it and decide to move on?"

She frowned, tensing, her guard up. "What're you driving at?"

"You've been pushing for the cure," H.R. said, gazing intently at her. "But consider the outcome of your sad little romance story. All you have to do is wait a little longer, and in time Christian's wife will die of her disease and you'll have him at last. Has that occurred to you? If you love him that much, and if you truly want to be married to him one day and have a life with him, why insist on the cure?"

Leslie fell back into the chair, her knees giving way beneath her. It was as if he was rummaging around in her brain, stealing her very thoughts. "What damn difference does it make?" she said. "You're not giving out the cure anyway, on account of some idiotic vendetta you have against Father. It's really all academic. But damn you, you don't understand love at all. I might get Christian, sure—but I'd lose Father. And there is absolutely no way on earth I could possibly survive that. I've lost everyone else in some way or another. Father's all the family I have left. He gave me everything when my world imploded twenty years ago, and I owe him my life. I call him Father because the man I was born to regarded me as a tremendous cross he had to bear. Your cousin stepped in and became the father I should have had." She focused on H.R. and concluded through a haze of tears, "It's not worth it. I'd rather tell Christian and Marina there's a cure, and lengthen my wait for him indefinitely, than have to endure Father's death." So saying, she turned resolutely back to the computer, brought up Christian's message and began to reply, typing fast and furiously, telling him everything. H.R. watched her for a couple of minutes, till he was convinced that she truly meant every word she had said; then he silently departed the house, his mind churning.

_Christian, my love,_

_I'm sorry I've delayed my reply to you...crazy things have been happening here in the last few weeks. I hope you're sitting down, because there's so much to say, and most of it is incredible. I know about Marina's sister's death. In fact, just before it happened, she was here on Fantasy Island. It seems Paola was once Father's assistant –- his last one before I returned home as a recent widow. He had just let her go from the position and I saw her as she was rushing to the plane dock. That was almost nine years ago; last month she came back, completely surprising Father. From the beginning she seemed to have some hold over him. Marina is right about the demons that plagued her. She had some twisted agenda that called for murdering me and controlling Father's mind so that she could get whatever it was she wanted. I won't go into all the details here, but suffice it to say that Paola and Marina are Father's people...he didn't elaborate on that, but I take it to mean that they have at least some of the same mental abilities that Father has. Fortunately, Father and I together managed to defeat her, and Father banished her from the island._

_It seems that she retreated to another remote island -– one run by his cousin, a certain H.R. Roarke. That's where she apparently died of the disease that Marina has. It wasn't till after Paola was gone that we discovered she managed to pass the disease on to Father. We didn't know what was afflicting him till a fellow named Rogan Callaghan came here. Julie and I were struggling to make a success of a couple of fantasies, because Father was bedridden by then and couldn't do it himself. Rogan bailed us out, then stepped right in and enlightened us as to what Father had. Then he shocked me completely. Christian, my love, are you ready for this? Rogan says there's a cure for the bone-eating disease._

_Yes, a cure. But the only person who knows what it actually is is H.R. Roarke: Father's cousin and Rogan's dad. And for some reason, he refuses to tell anyone what it is. He's caught up in some imaginary rivalry with Father, holds some ridiculous grudge against him for who knows what reason, and won't reveal the secret. Just now he suggested that if he continues to withhold the cure, you and I could be together in the foreseeable future. But that would mean letting Father die, and I simply can't allow it. I love you, Christian, I truly do. But I love Father too, and it would very likely kill me to lose him._

_I might anyway, of course. The whole thing is academic until and unless we get the cure out of H.R. Believe me, my love, if we do, I'll tell you and Marina straightaway. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't: it just wouldn't be right. I hope you'll understand. I love you, Christian, please always remember that._

_My love always, Leslie_

_She hit the send button, watched the message_ vanish from the screen and be replaced by a confirmation notice, then dropped her head onto the desk and broke down. For a long time Leslie hunched there sobbing, alone and unnoticed by anyone else.

‡ ‡ ‡

Rogan came for Julie shortly before five-thirty that evening and drove her jeep to the pond restaurant, where at his request they were given a table that overlooked the water. A pair of swans drifted lazily in the middle of the pond, and Julie watched them dreamily. "Don't swans mate for life? Or is that geese?" she mused.

Rogan chuckled. "I don't remember either," he admitted. "What do you like here? I've not eaten here before, so I don't know what's good."

"Everything's good," Julie assured him. "Pick whatever appeals to you and just enjoy it. Me…I think I'm going to have the shrimp scampi. I don't get to eat much seafood."

"You should put it on the menu," Rogan said. "You can cook just about everything, I must tell you. No wonder your B&B is always full." Julie beamed at him.

"That's sweet, Rogan, thank you! I'm thinking of trying this new muffin recipe I found online," she said and chattered for a while, even while the waiter came and took their orders. Rogan propped his chin on his fist and watched her with a little smile, listening contentedly to her animated narrative. He grew crazier about her all the time; she was so full of life and enthusiasm, and her heart was that of an eager little girl, constantly popping out through the adult façade she normally wore for her guests. She had truly enchanted him, in a way he'd never been before, and he didn't want to walk away, ever.

He kept looking at her even after their orders arrived and they were well into the meal. At first Julie seemed unaware, but she started sneaking glances at him and catching him watching her every time. At last she centered her gaze on his and returned the silly smile he'd been wearing the entire time. "I hope I'm not getting a zit or a wart on my nose," she kidded, and Rogan laughed loudly, turning heads.

"No, no, Julie lass, you're simply beautiful…and you're priceless," he said, his voice softening. "You know, these few days with you have opened up something lovely to me. I can't remember ever knowing this feeling before." He reached across the table, caught her hand in his and said, "I love you, Julie MacNabb. I've fallen deep and hard and fast, and I'll never get back out again. I don't ever want to. Not only am I in love with you, but I want you as my wife. Will you make my night, Julie lass, and agree to marry me?"

Julie's hand drifted to her mouth and her eyes strained to match the dinner plates for sheer size. "This isn't a dream, is it?" she breathed, barely audible, as if afraid speaking in a normal voice would cause it all to end.

"If so, we're having the same dream, my sweet lass," Rogan assured her, grinning.

"It sure feels like a dream," Julie admitted guilelessly. "The first time I saw you when you walked into the main house, I felt this…magnetism. I wanted more than anything to get to know you and I was hoping something might grow out of it. I love you too, Rogan, and it would be the greatest pleasure of my entire life to be your wife!"

Rogan's laugh this time was one of celebration, and without further ado he turned to the assembled diners. "Ladies and gentlemen, I've just received the greatest gift ever. This lovely lady has consented to marry me!" The other patrons applauded, and Julie giggled, turning red but plainly enjoying the attention. Rogan bowed, evoking laughter, and Julie yanked at his arm.

"Sit down, you nut," she chortled. "I can't believe this is happening! Oh, wait till I tell uncle and Leslie! They need some good news."

Rogan looked suddenly worried. "Do you think he'll let me remain on the island, Julie, my sweet lass? Considering who my father is…"

"Don't be silly," Julie said promptly. "You're not your father, Rogan, and they both know that. If they do say anything, I'll tell them it's my prerogative—you're my choice of a husband, and they'll just have to accept it." She grinned; then her mood changed and she rested one elbow on the table, dropping her chin onto the heel of her hand and studying his face. "I've got some wine at my house. You want to split it with me?"

"Thought you'd never ask," said Rogan and arose, catching her hand and bringing her up along with him. At the entrance they settled the bill, then drove back to Julie's house, where in the rosy light of sunset they paused at the back door and kissed. It went on for so long that eventually one of Julie's guests saw them and released a piercing wolf whistle that jangled their eardrums and broke them apart. The sunset had faded to advancing twilight and the brightest stars had already popped out.

They stared at each other, a little breathless with their growing need for each other, eyes gleaming and a little wild. "Forget the wine," Rogan said hoarsely. "Just let me share your bed with you this night, Julie, my sweet lass. You make me drunk all by yourself."

"You took the words right out of my mouth," Julie mumbled, kissed him, then shoved at the door. They stumbled inside, fell against it with their mouths fused again, and got jarred apart once more when the door crashed shut. One look was all they needed to run upstairs and barricade themselves in Julie's bedroom.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- February 11, 1999

Leslie moved as if in a fog the following morning, hardly noticing when Mariki set breakfast in front of her, eating mechanically without either tasting the food or remembering what she'd ingested. Mariki, worried again, went so far as to wave her hand in front of Leslie's blank stare to get her attention, but Leslie seemed not to notice anything around her. She only got up from the table and headed automatically across the porch toward the door, with Mariki staring after her and wondering uneasily what had happened.

As though drawn, Leslie crossed the study and climbed the stairs, going right to Roarke's room. Life finally flickered in her eyes when she realized he was stirring faintly, his eyelids fluttering. She flew to the side of the bed and dropped to her knees there, wrapping both her hands around one of his, alarmed at how cold it was. "Father? Father, it's me, Leslie," she whispered urgently. "Father, wake up, please…"

Slowly Roarke's eyes opened and she saw him focus on her. "Leslie," he said, though it came out in a thready whisper.

"I didn't give you the tonic yesterday," she remembered with wide-eyed horror. "Oh God!…" He didn't have the strength to protest or to reassure her, but simply watched as she measured out the five-milliliter dose with shaky hands and helped him take it. They waited in silence for a couple of minutes, till the tonic had a chance to circulate through Roarke's system and bolster what little strength he had.

"You needed to do what was necessary yesterday, Leslie," he finally told her when he was able to speak a little more normally. "You know this is only a stopgap solution."

"I don't care," said Leslie stubbornly. "I don't like it that I forgot." She compressed her lips and lowered her gaze to escape his amused expression, and then remembered. "Oh…I happen to know that good old H.R. was here visiting yesterday. He looked pretty disconcerted that you'd thrown him out."

"He told you?" Roarke asked.

"Actually, I heard you shout at him to go," Leslie said, grinning.

Roarke grinned back. "I see," he said. "I believe that is the largest single burst of energy I've had since I contracted this illness. I must admit that the man vexed me beyond endurance. Unfortunately, it completely drained me."

"So I hear," Leslie said. "I was going to check on you, but H.R. said not to bother since you were probably asleep. Judging from what I'd heard, I figured he must be right and let it go…but it slipped my mind altogether and I never did recall it again."

"It's all right, Leslie," Roarke assured her. "I slept the rest of yesterday and throughout the night, so it would have made no difference. Tell me what you know about what has been happening in the last few days."

Leslie blew out her breath and settled herself more comfortably on the edge of the bed. "Rogan scared me yesterday morning: apparently your cousin is friends, or something like it, with Mephistopheles." She told Roarke what Rogan had related to her, then went on to explain that Christian had returned home early from his around-the-world sojourn in part because of the news of Paola's death. "I wound up telling him everything after H.R. tried to tempt me…" she began and closed her eyes, her voice trailing off.

She felt Roarke's hand close around hers; his grip wasn't strong, but its warmth was reassuring. "Tell me, child," he coaxed quietly. "Don't keep it inside you."

When Leslie opened her eyes again, they carried a film of tears. Her voice was flat with the effort to control as she told him of H.R.'s observations regarding the cure. Roarke listened silently; when she finished, he sighed gently. "Have you heard from Christian since that time, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I haven't checked e-mail since I sent him that last message," she said. "I have no idea how he'll take it. All I know is, I can't bear the thought of losing you. Even having Christian in my life couldn't make up for your absence."

Roarke watched her; he knew there was plenty he could say, but her mood was too unstable for her to withstand any platitudes. "If you love him, Leslie, give him a chance," was all he said in the end. She looked at him, and he added, "Do you doubt him?"

"N-no," she said without conviction.

Roarke's regard became gently reproachful. "For shame, Leslie," he scolded lightly. "I will be awake for some time—go and see if he has replied, then come back and tell me what he said. Frankly, I find myself quite curious."

Leslie had to smile at that, and confessed, "I guess you've made me curious too. All right, I'll be back in a few minutes."

In her own room she woke the computer and logged onto her account, scanned the messages and found one from Christian. In spite of herself she held her breath while she opened it, then let it out in a gust as she read.

_My darling Leslie,_

_What a terrible ordeal for you...these have been trying days for certain. I thought I was going to be sick from the shock of everything you told me. When Marina heard what Paola had done, she burst into tears. Then I read about the cure, and I think the bottom dropped out of my stomach. Marina cried harder than ever and claimed that she didn't deserve to know the cure, because of Paola's deeds. I had to explain to her that so far, this cousin of your father's refuses to divulge its secrets, so that she might be reacting prematurely. She simply went on crying. I think her emotions are fixed on this guilt by association to such a degree that it hasn't yet sunk in for her that she may not even get the cure in the first place._

_You must have been tormented when that despicable man suggested sacrificing Mr. Roarke so that you and I could be together at last. Leslie, my beautiful girl, if you had responded any other way than you did, you wouldn't be the Leslie Hamilton I love so deeply. I wouldn't have expected anything different from you. You told H.R. exactly what you should have told him, and I love you all the more for it. Yes, it will indefinitely delay the day when we can finally forge a life together, but neither of us could ever be truly happy if we'd bought that life with your father's death. My only regret is that I can't be there for you now. Please tell me if you want me to call you –- I will in a heartbeat, you know that, my darling._

_I love you very much, my Leslie Rose, and I'll never stop loving you. Take comfort in that._

_Always, Christian_

The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks when she returned to Roarke's room; his dark eyes lit with sympathy and he gripped her hand with all the meager strength he could call forth. "And the verdict?" he prodded.

Leslie tried to compose herself. "He s-said that he didn't expect anything else of me than what I actually did, and loves me that much more for it."

Roarke smiled broadly and said, "There, now, you see?" She hiccupped and started to really cry, and he chuckled. "It's all right, sweetheart, go ahead and work it out of your system. Frankly, I admit to amazement that you haven't had a total breakdown before this. You've been under a great deal of strain, and I am very proud of you for bearing up so well under the load you've had over these last few weeks. How many times have I said in the past that you're stronger than you give yourself credit for?" Caught up in her crying, she could only shake her head, and he squeezed her hand.

"Good heavens, did something else terrible happen?" exclaimed Julie's voice from the doorway. Roarke glanced behind his weeping daughter and smiled at sight of Julie and Rogan peering quizzically around the half-open door.

"Leslie's merely reacting to the stresses of late," Roarke said. "Come in, both of you. From the glow on your faces, I presume you have news to tell."

"That we do, uncle," Rogan said, following Julie into the room. "I wish it had something to do with Da and his little secret, but maybe this will be of some interest to you anyway. I've proposed to Julie, and she's done me the honor of accepting."

"And you've gotta let him stay, uncle, because otherwise I'll take my B&B and defect to Hawaii or Tahiti or someplace," Julie added with mock threat, plucking a few tissues from a box on Roarke's nightstand and handing them to Leslie. "If you throw Rogan off the island, then I'm going with him."

Roarke laughed, his voice almost too low to hear now. "Have no fear, Julie! What sort of godfather do you think I am, now? I could no more have your future husband deported than I could my own daughter." He squeezed Leslie's hand again. "Congratulations to you both! Have you decided on a wedding date?"

"No…everything's on hold for the moment," Rogan said, sobering. "What with the current circumstances, for now it's enough that we're going to be married." He pulled the chair out from the desk and offered it to Julie, who sat down with a smile of thanks at him, and he stood behind it and clasped her hand over her shoulder. "I'm glad to hear you can see past my parentage, uncle. I only wish Da could get over his petty jealousy and take some joy in the news. As it is, I don't think he deserves to know."

"Don't you think that would be stooping to his level?" Roarke asked.

Rogan and Julie looked at each other, while Leslie blotted at her wet face with the tissues Julie had given her and tried to calm herself down. "I don't think so," Julie said candidly. "I mean, I haven't seen the guy all that much, but I know enough to draw the conclusion that he's afflicted with a terminal case of _schadenfreude."_

"To be sure," Rogan agreed heavily. "Even though Julie and I are happy in our love for each other and our plans for the future, there's that damned shadow overhanging everything. I can see it all over the place—Julie has occasion to see quite a few of your employees, and there's a pall hanging over the island. Sometimes the sadness is too thick to cut with an axe. And here…here, I think, is Sadness Central. Look at poor Leslie there."

Leslie looked up at him with some surprise, even as his sympathy tore a hole in her fragile composure and another tear fell out of her eye. "Is this ever going to be over?" she asked, her voice still distorted by emotion.

"I can tell you this much," Rogan said, looking away, studying the lovely Persian rug that covered most of the wood floor. "The end will come one way or another tomorrow at midnight. That's when Mephistopheles wants Da to make his final decision."

Silence fell then, and Julie reached over and patted Leslie's arm, while Roarke and Leslie clutched each other's hands, neither able to think of anything to say.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- February 12, 1999

Rogan and Julie were having a candlelight dinner beside the pool at Julie's B&B when, to their amazement, H.R. wandered into view and paused to watch them. "Something you want, Da?" Rogan asked patiently.

H.R. sidled into the pool area and studied the romantic tableau. "Now what's this all about?" he asked curiously.

"Since you're here, I suppose we may as well tell you," Rogan said. "I'm engaged to be married to this lovely lass. This, by the way, is Julie MacNabb. You've often asked if Mum had MacNabb blood in her. That I don't know about, but you can rest assured that your grandchildren will."

"Nice to meet you," Julie said politely and smiled, although said smile was noticeably strained and involved only her lips. Her eyes remained wary.

"Married," H.R. repeated, as if he had never heard the word before. "So…when is this wondrous event to take place?"

"We don't know," said Rogan. "We've put everything else on hold until we find out what you plan to do to your cousin. I have to tell you, Da, I wasn't going to let you in on the wedding plans. The last thing we need is a sour face wishing harm on someone in the wedding party—or worse, on either Julie or me. Maybe we'll leave you out anyway."

"My only son, rejecting me," H.R. said, hiking an eyebrow. "You find me that repulsive, do you, Rogan? And what of your intended, there? I presume she feels the same."

"What do you plan to do to my godfather?" Julie asked point-blank. H.R. eyed her, and she waited for a long moment, till it became clear he had no intention of answering her. She looked sadly at Rogan. "I see what you mean."

"There must be other members of the Roarke clan somewhere on this planet," Rogan said to Julie, ignoring his father. "A lot of us, along with members of the other clans who came here with the Roarke family, were wiped out by various witchcraft pogroms through the centuries, but I can't quite believe that uncle and Da and I are all that remain. It would be a perfect time to have a family reunion, if they're out there. With the internet, it will make a search much easier." He sighed wistfully. "There was a time, many, many years ago, when the family was more extended and made a point of meeting at least once every ten years or thereabouts. I wish you could have seen the reunions, Julie lass. So many cheerful faces, so much laughter and love. A new family member was always a cause for celebration. I must have been maybe fifteen when I went with Da to my first one…there were many more of us in those days. It was the first time I met uncle, and he was easily the handsomest of them all. But hardly anyone could begrudge him that, since he was so good-natured, so welcoming. He always had a way of putting you at ease." He grinned at some recollection. "He made a point of getting to know me and asked me about my mother, and I found myself telling him everything. I even told him…" Rogan hesitated, then gathered both of Julie's hands in his and leaned over the table, as though to signal to the openly eavesdropping H.R. that this was something intensely private. "I told him about the way Mum spoke of Da…how she missed him, wished things could have been different so that they could have been together and I would have known the love of both my parents. Mum truly loved Da, and she'd have no other after they were separated. The last thing she said on her deathbed was his name."

Julie's eyes had filled with tears. "How beautiful…and how sad!"

"I've a painting somewhere of Mum. After we're married, I'll bring it here and we'll hang it," Rogan promised, squeezing her hands. "Take heart, sweet lass. If the unthinkable happens, we'll keep watch over Leslie. She'll need it."

Julie nodded, her tears spilling over, and Rogan dabbed them away with a napkin. Neither of them noticed that H.R. had disappeared. In fact, the older man had been rocked by Rogan's revelation about his mother. It had not been until Rogan had first come to him as a teenager that he had learned of Caitriona's death from tuberculosis, and the shock had almost unhinged him. Yet, through all the years since then, he'd somehow formulated and clung to the idea that she had grown indifferent to him. If Rogan was right, then his own cynicism was badly misplaced.

Why, he wondered, had he not tried to search for Caitriona after she'd vanished? The memories of their days together came back to him in an avalanche, swamping him to the point that he had to stop moving because they filled his mind's eye, making him turn inward and cease being aware of his surroundings. Theirs had been one of those love stories that is usually found nowadays only in romance novels—wild, sweet, joyous and unrestrained. He had discovered a whole new plane of existence in Caitriona's company, and the all-too-short time he'd had with her now seemed like a fragile dream that danced just beyond his reach, tantalizing him with promises that had gone forever unfulfilled. And all because she, perhaps fearing the transmission of her condition to him, had flitted from his life as suddenly as she'd come into it. He breathed her name into the gathering darkness over and over again, completely unaware he was even speaking, chasing those sweet memories that were now all that remained to him. Fates help him, how he missed her.

In time his mind cleared a little and he stood in the dark examining the revelations those memories had revealed to him. There seemed to be love everywhere on this island, and he had seen several vivid examples of it in the past two or three days. His own son, madly in love with Julie MacNabb and planning to marry at long last. Leslie, deeply in love with a man she couldn't have, denying herself a future with him yet again in the hope of saving the one person on earth she considered family. His cousin, reminiscing with reverence about the woman who had been his wife for a precious few days, finding joy in the rewards of parenthood to an orphan who clearly worshipped the ground he walked on. In his brief observations of the two together, he had gleaned the sense that each would willingly die for the other. He could see it, too, in Rogan and Julie's love for each other, and he could probably safely bet all he owned on the assumption that it was the same between Leslie and Christian.

There was a lot for him to think about. Somewhere along the way, he felt as if he'd lost a set of blinders that had been hindering him for decades. For a very long time he stood there considering what he'd seen and what his next move should be.

‡ ‡ ‡

A little before 11:30 that evening, there was a knock on the door. Leslie was in the study with Rogan and Julie, who had come to keep her company, and all three looked up in surprise at the sound. "I guess we're not the only ones up late," Julie said.

"Seems not. I'll see who it is," Rogan said and went to answer the summons. It turned out to be H.R., whose face was deliberately clean of all expression. "Ah, so it's you."

"That it is. I've come to ask a favor of you and Leslie," H.R. said, his voice as emotionless as his face. "Will you two accompany me to my meeting?"

Julie instantly gasped with alarm. "Rogan, you're not going, are you?"

Leslie stood up. "Where's it taking place?"

"At the cliff at Cabo de Varga," H.R. said. "I need witnesses, and the two of you are best suited to that."

Rogan nodded. "Very well, Da, we'll come," he said and turned to Julie. "Don't fret, my sweet lass. Leslie and I are in no danger. It's entirely between Da and Mephistopheles, and as he said, we're there only as witnesses. You hold down the fort here, in case uncle should wake for any reason, and I promise you we'll be back within an hour."

Julie looked unconvinced. "I hope you're right," she said uneasily. "Keep safe, Rogan, love…and you too, Leslie." Leslie offered a wan, spiritless smile before departing with Rogan and H.R.

Nobody said anything for the entire twenty-minute walk to the appointed meeting place, except for one point when Rogan asked, "Da, don't you think you're cutting it close? I did hear Mephistopheles say midnight."

H.R. only made a dismissive gesture. "I know what I'm doing," he said shortly, and that was the end of the discussion. They trudged on at the same deliberate pace.

By the time they reached the cliff, they had less than ten minutes left before H.R. had to deliver his decision. Mephistopheles was pacing the ground around the one tree, his steps fraught with impatience, and he shook his head in disgust when the threesome hove into view. "It took you long enough to get here!" he complained, then noticed Rogan and Leslie. "What's this all about?"

"I've brought witnesses," H.R. said, voice still devoid of inflection. "If there's any argument about what transpires here, they'll be able to provide accurate information."

"I note that one of them is Roarke's daughter," Mephistopheles said, scowling fiercely at him. "If you wanted a fair and impartial witness, you made about as wrong a choice as it's possible to make."

H.R. shook his head once or twice. "Not at all. I know precisely what I'm doing, and she and my son are ideal for the purpose. And just for the record, they are _not_ included in the deal I'm making with you. You get one soul this night, and that's all."


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § -- February 12, 1999

Rogan's face filled with disbelief; Leslie found herself suddenly unable to breathe. _He was really going to go through with it!_ She was on the thin edge of rushing H.R. and knocking him straight over the cliff. Rogan saw it and clamped his hands around her arm, frantically shaking his head at her when she threw him a look of panicked betrayal.

"Right, right, right," crowed Mephistopheles, bouncing in place as if he'd suddenly been infused with too much nervous energy and needed to expend it. "So I do, so I do. And that's fine with me…in light of this, I won't need their souls. I knew you wouldn't let me down, my old friend. I knew I could count on you."

"How did you know that?" H.R. asked, a thread of amusement in his voice. "In case you've conveniently forgotten, I've never actually turned a soul over to you before."

"What does that matter, when I'm about to receive the one soul I've coveted most in all the world for so long? H.R., my good man, you won't believe the rewards I'll shower upon you for doing this. There aren't words to express my gratitude!…" Mephistopheles continued to wax grandiloquent; meantime, H.R. turned to Rogan and Leslie and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Both watched him, Rogan puzzled, Leslie ready to attack. H.R. noticed her stance and smiled with grim humor.

"Stand down, Leslie," he suggested quietly. "I've something to give you." He withdrew two small folded slips of paper from his jacket and handed one to Rogan, the other to Leslie. "Go ahead, look at them."

"…I've got everything ready for Roarke when he arrives in—" Mephistopheles cut himself off at the sound of Leslie and Rogan unfolding the sheets H.R. had forked over. "Now wait a minute, H.R., what are you doing over there?"

"Making my decision," H.R. replied with the utmost calm. Behind his words, they all heard a bell begin to toll the midnight hour, at some great distance. Mephistopheles peered overhead as if he could see it, then eyed Leslie and Rogan with growing suspicion. No one spoke for a moment; then Leslie gasped.

"Sweet paradise…is this the…the cure?" Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last word; she barely dared hope.

Mephistopheles stiffened and his eyes went very wide. H.R. watched him with mild amusement, eyebrows raised. Rogan looked up and began to grin.

"I think we've all the ingredients we need in stock, Da," he said.

"It _is_ the damned cure, isn't it?" Mephistopheles breathed ominously. "How could you do this to me? After all these years of amiability and cordiality—you've failed me after all! You string me along and let me believe for a few blissful days that I'd finally achieved my heart's desire, and then snatch it from me at the last moment!"

"Bah," H.R. suddenly snorted, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "You underestimated me very badly, Mephistopheles. You gave me too much time to think things over and observe what was happening around me. In the end, I couldn't turn P.Q. over to you. What sort of family does something like that?"

"_DAMN YOU!"_ screamed Mephistopheles, body quaking, eyes literally blazing with a towering rage that would have ignited into an inferno had anyone had a match handy. _"DAMN YOU, H.R., DAMN YOU!"_

"Quite so," H.R. agreed tonelessly. "I've been damned for centuries, if you want the truth. I'm not my cousin, but I daresay you'll be able to expend some of the creative energy on me that you were so ready to use on P.Q." He swept one arm out in the direction of the cliff. "Well, shall we? No use waiting round."

Rogan jerked to attention. "What's this, Da? Are you offering yourself up to the devil, for the love of heaven!"

"It's only right," H.R. said, shrugging. "Mere payback for what I've done over the years. I did tell Mephistopheles here that he was getting one soul tonight. You had no idea I meant my own, did you?" His gaze shifted to Leslie, who was frozen with shock. "I know you thought I was going to calmly hand your father over to him. You're an open book, young lady. But I've always been full of surprises, and I decided to save the best one for last. Make sure you tell P.Q. every detail of what happened here. And tell him…tell him I'm sorry." He smiled slightly, then turned back to Mephistopheles and sighed. The devil was stomping around in circles, roaring incoherently, arms waving madly through the air. In response the ocean below them was churning dangerously, and in the sky overhead massive storm clouds had gathered, sparking colossal lightning bolts and setting off deafening thunderclaps. "Oh, cut the histrionics already, will you, old chap? Anyone would think you're three years old, with the temper tantrum you're throwing."

Mephistopheles leaped into action, seized H.R. by one arm and, without the slightest warning, threw him over the cliff's edge. Leslie screamed and Rogan let out a shocked howl, and the devil turned to them with a threatening sneer. "Let that be a lesson to you," he growled. "Don't…_ever_…cross Satan!" So saying, he followed H.R. over the cliff; all at once the sky cleared and quieted, and the ocean calmed, leaving a silence that felt like a void. Even the bell had stopped tolling.

Rogan and Leslie stood there immobilized by shock and horror, staring at the edge of the cliff where the two entities had been just moments before. After a minute, Rogan cursed sharply in Irish, savagely kicking stones over the precipice, hurling indecipherable invective into the sky while Leslie watched him with enormous eyes. It took her another minute to gather herself together enough to catch his arm and stop him. "Don't, Rogan," she said, her voice shaking badly. "It was his choice. He said all along that he knew what he was doing, and he did. His every move was deliberate and calculated."

"Maybe…but that didn't mean he had to sacrifice himself!" Rogan cried in protest.

"I know, it seems like a waste," Leslie agreed with an all-encompassing sigh, glancing skittishly at the cliff where H.R. had met his demise. "Just when we thought we'd escape unscathed…but I think there was something redeemable in your father after all. Look at the sacrifice he ultimately made for Father. Something must have gotten to him. I wish we could have known what it was."

"I as well," Rogan murmured heavily. "Well…let's get back before Julie raises an alarm, shall we, cousin?"

Leslie nodded, mulling in surprise over the word as they hiked back down the trail they'd traversed earlier. "We really are cousins, aren't we," she said suddenly, making Rogan glance smilingly back over his shoulder. "This should be interesting. I never had a cousin before."

"Then here's your chance to find out what it's like," chuckled Rogan. "By the way, Leslie, we need to run by Julie's B&B, if you happen to know a shortcut. I need to get something out of my luggage."

"I think I can find a back trail," said Leslie, and made a couple of educated guesses in the dark. Soon they reached the MacNabb homestead; while Rogan went inside, Leslie unfolded the page H.R. had given her and read the list of ingredients for the cure. Two stood out: one was a fairly common plant called boneset, of which Leslie had heard and could recognize by sight, but had never really known much about; and the other was amakarna. She gasped, just as Rogan emerged from the back door.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"This stuff needs amakarna," she cried, "and there's none on the whole island!"

Rogan smiled. "Correction—there's a little: all in here." He displayed an ornate crystal spice bottle at her. "I brought some with me."

Leslie eyed him in disbelief. "You know something, Rogan Callaghan? You're almost worse than Father when it comes to keeping secrets. I think, since we're family, I've got a right to know. How did you know to bring that stuff?"

Rogan gestured at her to accompany him as he turned to retrace his steps down the trail that had brought them to the MacNabb house. "Let me go back to the beginning, when Paola stumbled onto Da's island. I said initially that she ranted in Italian. She did, but just toward the end when she was in her very last hours. I had one run-in with her, in which she bragged to me that she had really got Da's attention now. She was going to eliminate his cousin for him and take over his island, because she'd managed to pass the bone-eating disease on to uncle. In her mind, it was going to be her last magnificent effort to gain Da's love. Paola was always in love with Da, and Ariel made her insane with jealousy. She died the next day, and I knew I'd have to do something before Da was motivated to act. Paola had this spice jar in her belongings, and when she died I confiscated it before someone else could put it to more nefarious use. After I got here and realized how low the supply of tonic was, I planned to use some of this to make more. But now it can go into the cure. If you're willing, Leslie, I can use your help in mixing it up."

"Of course, I'd be offended if you didn't ask," Leslie said. "But to tell the truth, I don't know how much help I can be. I can't even read the labels on the bottles."

"No matter," Rogan said. "I'll find them and measure out what's needed, and you can blend them together."

"Just as well. I can't understand half the words written on this sheet—and they're in our alphabet!" She shook her head, at first in confusion and then in wonder as her gaze lit again on the apparent oddity in the list. "Imagine something as commonplace and terrestrial as boneset being part of the cure!"

"Just goes to show you you never know," Rogan observed cheerfully. "I think it's there because it can be safely ingested by both humans and our people. I seem to remember reading somewhere that Cro-Magnon peoples used it to aid in healing broken bones, making them stronger so that they would mend better."

"That makes sense. Judging from its name, I assume the disease eventually attacks the bones," Leslie said, pausing when she saw a clump of boneset growing alongside the trail. Carefully she harvested a good-sized handful.

Rogan nodded. "Yes, that's right. I don't know if boneset was actually the missing link or if it was something else; but no matter. The important thing is getting back to the main house, mixing up some of this and giving it to uncle, and then stepping back to see if it does what Da claimed it would do."


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -- February 12, 1999

They arrived at the main house around ten minutes later; Julie leaped out of her chair and flung herself headlong at Rogan, bursting into tears of relief. Leslie had to jump out of the way and, when Julie's mad rush at Rogan caused him to drop the spice jar, managed somehow to catch it before it shattered on the wooden floor. It took Rogan precious minutes to calm Julie down enough for her to realize that he and Leslie had returned alone.

"What happened to your father?" she asked.

"It's a long story, Julie lass," Rogan said, "but it resulted in our getting the cure. He gave Leslie and me each a copy of the recipe, and we've got to hurry down and concoct some before any more time slips away from us. Each minute gone is a minute uncle comes closer to dying, and that would be simply horrible when we've the means of saving him right here in our hands. Stay and keep watch, sweet lass. Leslie's going to help me."

"Hurry," Julie cried, letting him loose instantly. Rogan and Leslie half-ran down the hall, into the dining room where the spiral staircase to the bell tower and the cellar was located, and clattered down the narrow, curving steps to the pitch-black basement.

"Ach," Rogan groaned. "I hope someone installed a switch in here."

Leslie patted the wall near the stairs till she blundered across it and flipped it up. The room was promptly flooded with welcome light, and she smoothed out her list on the stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. She then extracted the plants she had harvested from her shorts pocket and laid them on the table beside the spice jar of amakarna, then called out the names of the remaining ingredients—often making Rogan laugh with the expected mispronunciations thereof—while he retrieved each one. In a few cases he had to search extensively for the item in question, turning Leslie into a frantic bag of nerves before he finally unearthed what they needed.

They spent most of an hour preparing the various ingredients and mixing them together; in the end they found themselves with a small bowl full of a caramel-colored, syrupy decoction. Leslie noticed a sweetly spicy aroma drifting up from it and took an experimental sniff. Rogan smiled.

"That's the amakarna," he said. "Not only does it have numerous health-altering properties—both good and bad, depending on its state—but it tastes good. It has the kind of sweetening ability you get in cinnamon, but with a much different flavor."

"Then this should go down fairly easily," Leslie said hopefully. "That is, unless you think we should emulate Mary Poppins and get the sugar bowl from the kitchen."

Rogan laughed. "I don't think that'll be necessary, but I admire your spirit, cousin." He crouched down and chose an empty bottle from a group of them sitting on a lower shelf of the table, then twisted off the cap and held it out. "Pour it in here."

Carefully Leslie tipped the bowl over the narrow mouth, and she and Rogan watched intently as a thin stream of viscous liquid drained from the bowl into the bottle. Once most of it had been transferred, Leslie discovered a spoon near the empty bottles and carefully, but quickly, scraped out the remainder. Then Rogan capped the bottle and met her gaze.

"This is it," Leslie said softly. "Let's go."

This time it was she who led the way up from the cellar, back through the house and up to the second floor; Julie joined them in the study and fell in behind Rogan. Leslie turned on the hallway light, tapped on Roarke's door and pushed it open when there was no reply. The light from the hallway lit the bedroom enough for them to see that he was in the midst of another coma-like slumber, his breathing rate rivaling that of a bear in hibernation.

"Is he too far gone to wake up?" Julie asked in a whisper.

"No idea," said Rogan, speaking normally and startling both Julie and Leslie. He gave them a bemused look. "Why whisper? After all, we _want_ him to wake up—and if he doesn't, he won't hear us anyway. For that matter, Leslie, turn on that lamp there."

Leslie shrugged and did so; to their surprise, the light caused Roarke to stir, and in another ten seconds or so he opened his eyes, regarding them with a blank look. "Father, you won't believe it," Leslie said, kneeling beside the bed. "We got the cure!"

Roarke was so weak and had been so deeply asleep that he could do no more than widen his dark eyes to express his astonishment. She nodded rapidly and held up the bottle. "It's a long story, but here it is."

"How much are you supposed to give him to make it work?" Julie asked.

Rogan and Leslie looked at each other, brought up short; then Rogan patted his pockets and dug around in them till he finally came up with his now-much-folded copy of the formula. He scanned the page and sighed. "All it says here is 'administer immediately after completing mixture.' I tell you what, let's try half a glass and see if that's enough. If it's not, uncle can always take another dose in the morning."

They all watched while Leslie uncapped the bottle and half filled the small drinking glass that sat on the nightstand. No one spoke; indeed, they hardly dared breathe as Leslie assisted Roarke in holding the glass and tilting it so that he could swallow its contents.

Two full minutes passed before he spoke, sounding very sleepy but distinctly amused. "This contains amakarna, does it not?" he murmured. Rogan and Leslie both nodded, and he smiled in an almost absentminded manner. "Little wonder: it seems to have a soporific effect. It's very late, so I suggest all of you get some sleep."

"Sleep? Are you kidding?" Julie blurted incredulously.

"You may stay up if you choose, but that won't change the outcome," Roarke told her, yawning as discreetly as he could. "You may as well sleep."

Leslie grinned wearily. "Now that you mention it, Father, I'm done for," she admitted. "He's right, you guys. Go on home and catch some Z's. I'll call you tomorrow morning."

§ § § -- February 13, 1999

Leslie had expected to lie awake indefinitely due to her own impatience to know if the cure really worked; but it was nearly 2 A.M. and her energy supply was depleted enough that she sank into sleep within ten minutes. The next thing she was aware of was a persistent tapping on her bedroom door. Memory flooded back and she rolled over to face the door, half rising. The sight that greeted her almost made her question her eyesight at first. There stood Roarke, dressed and ready to start the day, watching her with a broad grin and sparkling dark eyes. "Good morning, sleepyhead!" he teased.

Leslie's entire face lit; she shrieked aloud and grew so frantic with excitement that when she tried to scramble out of bed, she got tangled in the covers and more or less fell out, causing Roarke to burst into laughter. Nothing daunted, she finally freed herself, leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him. "It worked, it worked, it really worked!" she sang out, laughing and crying simultaneously, her emotions soaring. "We've gotta tell Rogan and Julie right away!"

Roarke, still laughing, returned her enthusiastic embrace for as long as she clung to him, till at last he was moved to suggest, "If you really want to apprise Rogan and Julie of the good news, you'll have to let go and get dressed so that you can do so. I myself have quite a few phone calls to make rescheduling a month's worth of fantasies, so you'd better hurry before it becomes necessary for me to monopolize the telephone."

Once he'd left, she swiftly dressed and remade the bed, then quite nearly leaped the entire staircase in her zeal to get into the study and spread the news. Roarke laughed all over again at her exuberance. "You're full of energy this morning!"

"Three guesses why," Leslie kidded and came around to the back of his chair, where she looped her arms around his neck and dropped a kiss onto his cheek from behind. "Seriously, Father, I can't tell you what an incredible relief it is to see you well again. I'm so happy I think I'll have to be careful I don't float off into the sky." Still chuckling, Roarke shook his head, reaching up to squeeze her hand.

At his behest she called Julie's house and left the following message, in its entirety: "Hi, guys—it's Leslie, and it worked!" Roarke realized he was finding her a great source of amusement that morning, for once she'd delivered the seven-word missive, she jumped into the foyer and called down the hall, "Mariki, are you in there?"

"Good Lord, Miss Leslie, there's no need to go shouting across the entire house to—" As she spoke, Mariki came down the corridor from the kitchen, cutting herself off when she spotted Roarke at the desk. She gasped very loudly. "Mr. Roarke…you're well! How did it happen? It's a miracle!"

Roarke smiled. "I'd be inclined to agree with you, Mariki," he said warmly. "There will be time for the full story later; at the moment, I find myself famished. The disease left me with little inclination or ability to eat."

"One king-size breakfast coming up. Wait—make that two. Your daughter has a way of neglecting her own well-being when someone else is sick," Mariki noted tartly. But she was grinning widely on her way back to the kitchen.

For the next several minutes Roarke was occupied making phone calls; meanwhile, Leslie signed onto e-mail and promptly wrote a blanket message advising that Roarke had been cured and business was to get back to normal as soon as possible. This she sent to a group e-mail address set up to send the message to all their employees simultaneously, as well as copying it to all her friends.

Then, scanning the new messages, she was suddenly yanked down to earth. There was one from Christian: and Leslie was reminded quite rudely that she had a moral duty to perform. Swallowing a little thickly, she clicked the message open and read it. It wasn't a very long one.

_My Leslie Rose,_

_What's the verdict? Have you heard anything? I'm confused -- don't quite know what to hope for. How horrible that is...forgive me. Just please tell me straight out, as soon as you know._

_Love, Christian_

Slowly Leslie composed her response:

_Christian, my love,_

_We got the cure...and it works. I'm overjoyed that Father's made a full recovery...yet my heart hurts. But it's the right thing to do. When Rogan comes over, we'll mix up several batches and ship some out right away. We'll send you a dose for Marina and another for her father. More later._

_Love, Leslie_

She bit her lip, drew in a slow, deep breath, and clicked _send_, closing her eyes. Much of the light had gone out of the day for her, but she deliberately steeled herself to hide it from all comers. It was a day to rejoice, and she intended to do just that.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § -- February 13, 1999

Just a few minutes later Rogan and Julie barreled into the house and attacked a startled but laughing Roarke, both noisy with delight over his complete recovery. Once he'd fended them off, he arose from his chair and regarded all three of them. "Since you're all here, you can fill me in on the long story at which Leslie hinted last night," he said. "Mariki is in the midst of preparing breakfast, and if I know her, she'll be making up for what Leslie and I didn't or couldn't eat over the past several weeks."

"So, instead of making enough for six, she'll make enough for twenty," Leslie added dryly, and Rogan and Julie both chortled.

"If that's an invitation to stay for breakfast, then we gladly accept," Rogan said. "Ah, uncle, it's very good to see you back to normal. I wasn't quite ready to step into your shoes if you were to pass on, and needless to say, Leslie would have gone ballistic."

Roarke grinned. "Very well; since I'm finished here, why don't we go out to the table and wait for Mariki to bring out the serving cart. My curiosity is sorely piqued."

Over the predicted gargantuan breakfast, Rogan and Leslie got Roarke up to speed on everything that had occurred the previous day, with Julie throwing in her two cents here and there. Leslie's voice was just perceptibly less animated than Rogan's, though, and he, Roarke and Julie all noticed it. However, they waited till Roarke had the entire story before Rogan filled a lull by asking, "Why the long face, Leslie? Everything's right with the world again. Or at least, everything's right with the island."

Leslie focused on him in guilty surprise. Roarke said gently, "Have you told Christian, sweetheart?"

She nodded glumly. "In as few words as possible."

"Christian?" Rogan repeated. "Seems to me there's something going on here that I don't know about. I hope I'm not prying if I ask to be let in on the secret."

"Oh, it's no secret," Roarke assured him and proceeded to explain to him who Christian was, his relationship with Leslie, and their ongoing forced separation, as well as the reasons for it. "Marina, Christian's wife, is the younger sister of the late Paola," he concluded, "and like Paola, she has the bone-eating disease. Though she had asked Leslie to wait for Christian, this was before anyone was aware of a cure. Now that the knowledge is out, Marina's request essentially becomes null and void."

"Are you sure, uncle?" Julie asked. "I mean, how long have Marina and her father had the disease? Isn't there some point beyond which the cure doesn't do any good?"

"There is, because Da told me that Paola was too far gone for the cure to help her. Do you know how long Marina and her father have been ill, Leslie?" Rogan asked.

"Actually I'm not sure," Leslie said. "I know it's been years in both cases, but I can't remember how many. When we're finished I'll e-mail Christian and ask."

Another half hour passed before the foursome decided they had had their fill and rose from the table. In the study, Roarke, Julie and Rogan watched while Leslie brought up the e-mail account again and found a reply from Christian. She chuckled sadly after reading it. "He mentioned that Marina still thinks she doesn't deserve the cure because of what Paola did to Father," she said, "and that's about it."

"She sounds like she _wants_ to die," Julie said, wrinkling her nose.

"She's a little hysterical, from the way Christian talks," Leslie said and brought up a reply screen, quickly typing out her query about how long Marina and the count had been afflicted with the bone-eating disease. Sending the message, she fell back in the chair and looked up at the others. "I'm almost afraid of the reply," she admitted.

"What a stupid situation," Julie said disgustedly. "If I had the MacNabb magic—"

"I would forbid you from using it," Roarke broke in neatly, his voice stern but his eyes alight. "Your motives are highly commendable, Julie, but your interference is not. In any event, even if you did have the MacNabb magic, it would be inapplicable to a situation of this magnitude. It's beyond anyone's ability to influence, including my own."

"Well, it was a nice idea," Leslie said with a small smile. "Thanks, Julie."

A couple of minutes later they heard the computer beep, and Leslie checked the account and opened the latest message from Christian. "He says," she reported, "that Marina's had the disease for about eight years, and her father's been afflicted for around 20 or so. He says the count's been bedridden for awhile now."

"Well?" Julie prodded her fiancé hopefully.

Rogan cleared his throat and said, "I'm not sure whether this is good news or bad, given the circumstances. But both Marina and the count will benefit from the cure: once a patient has had the disease for twenty-five years or more, the bones have deteriorated past the point where they can be mended properly. Marina will survive easily, and the count should make a full recovery as well."

Leslie stared sightlessly at the computer screen; after a few seconds her tears ran over. Roarke stroked her hair, and Rogan hung his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight uneasily. "I'm sorry, Leslie," he said helplessly.

"I shouldn't be crying," Leslie said savagely, angry at herself. "It's horrible of me to react like this. I should be glad they can be cured. And yet…" She fell silent, letting the tears have their way.

Silence met her words; for once even Roarke had no idea what to tell her. He could only stand by and offer the solace of a human touch, while Rogan and Julie sadly looked on.


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § -- March 6, 1999

Leslie stared at herself in the mirror in the upstairs bathroom, determined to be happy. It was Julie and Rogan's wedding day and she was the maid of honor; Julie had asked her to fill the role, and she had willingly agreed. She would just have to try to forget her own problems for the day. Determinedly she straightened herself, aimed a patently false smile at her reflection, rolled her eyes at the failed attempt at levity and gave up, leaving the bathroom and heading downstairs.

She watched with a sort of detached feeling while Julie's brother-in-law gave her away, Roarke performed the wedding ceremony, and Julie's three nephews and one niece peppered her and Rogan with questions about when they were going to get some cousins. Nothing Delphine said could deter them, particularly Julie's niece Ivy, who was hoping that Rogan and Julie would produce a daughter or two. Julie laughed and advised she wasn't promising anything, but if she did have a girl, Ivy could help choose a name.

Julie had babysat Lauren before, so Lauren and Brian had been invited to the wedding; Myeko was there too, covering the event for the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_. And Maureen was in attendance, albeit as part of her mother's catering company which was providing the food. So Leslie felt a little better, surrounded by friends; but it turned out to be Myeko with whom she was best able to commiserate. Myeko's budding romance with Steve Reilley, brother of actor Devin Reilley, had fallen through due to physical distance and the demands of their respective jobs; and she and Leslie found themselves standing on the sidelines, feeling a bit like third wheels, while couples danced across the huge side lawn of the MacNabb home and children chased each other around the perimeter.

"You know what else happened?" Leslie asked after some resigned conversation with Myeko in regard to the subject of marriage. "We heard from Jamie Marsh—you know, Helena's son. He's engaged to be married to a girl he met in Calcutta, and he asked if he could have the wedding here on the island. After all, he is Father's stepson…and I suppose that means he's my stepbrother, especially since I'm legally Father's daughter. When Father and Helena were married, I was only his ward."

"Geez," Myeko said, shaking her head. "Doesn't it seem to you like everybody on earth is getting married, and doing it here to boot? I guess I'm just jealous or something, but I heard through the grapevine that Toki's wife is pregnant. So of course, Alexander hopes it'll be a boy, and Noelle wants it to be a girl."

Leslie chuckled. "Typical! Anyway, Jamie says the wedding's set for June, and I have to admit it'll be really nice to see him again. He hasn't really stayed in touch since he left the island after his mother died, and in fact it's the first time he's contacted us since then, to the best of my knowledge."

"Really," Myeko said. "Well, let's face it, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Marsh were married only a few days. I guess there wasn't time for all those 'step-relationships' to sink in, and Jamie probably didn't feel obligated to keep in touch."

"True," Leslie said. "But I'm looking forward to it."

Myeko smiled, then located Rogan and Julie in the crowd. "I wonder what Rogan's gonna do after he and Julie settle into married life. You think he's gonna come into her B&B as an employee somehow? Chief cook and bottle-washer, maybe?"

"Well, chief bottle-washer at least," Leslie kidded back. "Julie's already chief cook." They giggled companionably. "You know, I'm glad you're here. I feel a little less blue now, you know?"

Myeko nodded, hanging an arm over Leslie's shoulder and grinning. "Misery sure does love company all right. I feel less crummy too. Tell you what, let's go over and talk to Maureen and sample some food while most of the gang's still out there dancing."

Maureen brightened when she saw them. "Hi there…I saw you two hanging aside and talking. I thought you were looking for an excuse to leave."

"We were thinking about it," Myeko admitted cheerfully, scanning the buffet. "Or at least I was. I think Leslie's obligated because she's maid of honor."

"It's gotta be hard on you," Maureen said. Leslie and her friends had gotten together the week after Roarke's recovery and had caught up completely on each other's lives, so that they all knew the full story of the cure and how it had affected Leslie's future. "How's Marina doing, by the way?"

"She and her father both made a complete recovery, just as Rogan said," Leslie told her with a soft sigh. "And I hear the count's as steadfast as ever that she stays married to Christian. Maybe I'll just have to accept the idea that he and I will never be together, and get on with my life." Myeko and Maureen looked at each other.

"Does Christian know you're thinking like that?" Maureen asked a touch reprovingly.

Leslie shrugged and shook her head. "No, I'd never tell him that—I'm not actually seriously considering it anyway. It's just that sometimes, when things look really bad, the doubts start creeping in. It's human nature." She sighed, then spotted Roarke talking with some of the guests and smiled. "But Father's still with us, and back to normal, and so's the island…so maybe it was a very high price, but in the end it was worth it." She turned back to her friends and grinned gamely. "So…any chance we can sneak an advance tasting before the masses swoop down on the goodies?" Amid Maureen's and Myeko's laughter, she found a plate and filled it, her heart finally beginning to lighten.  
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**A/N:** _Well, that's it finally…this has been a lot of fun to write, particularly since I made reference to so many "canon" items throughout the story. Following is a full list of credits, in the order of their first appearances in the story._

_The character of Maestro Edmond Dumont appeared in the December 20, 1980, episode "Crescendo/Three Feathers" (first story arc) which starred Monte Markham and Toni Tennille._

_The "sinister" Roarke, Harry, Cal and Ariel are taken from the second version of "Fantasy Island" (bonus points to Harry2 for spotting the crossover!) which was produced by Barry Sonnenfeld and starred Malcolm McDowell, Louis Lombardi, Edward Hibbert and Mädchen Amick. It aired from September 26, 1998, to January 23, 1999. (More bonus points to Harry2 for catching my thinly-veiled reference to the dismal and well-deserved failure of this version of the series…)_

_Where, you may be wondering, did I come up with "P.Q." for our Mr. Roarke? It comes from two books written by Jane Seskin in 1978 and 1979 which were novelizations of two episodes (check eBay every so often; copies of them sometimes crop up there). She referred to Ricardo Montalbán's alter ego as "Mr. P.Q. Roarke". As for the H.R., I made that up; it was my way of distinguishing between the two Roarkes._

_Miranda really was H.R.'s adopted daughter, taken from the remake's tenth episode, "Let Go", which first aired on December 26, 1998. The character was played by an actress named Tushka Bergen._

_When Roarke talks to H.R. about the origins of Fantasy Island, it goes back to the original pilot film which aired in January 1977. A guest named Arnold Greenwood (Bill Bixby) asked if it had been his idea, and Roarke replied cryptically that he was consulted..._

_Mephistopheles, as given vivid life by the wonderful Roddy McDowall, appeared in two episodes: "The Devil and Mandy Breem" (original airdate October 25, 1980) and "The Devil and Mr. Roarke" (original airdate October 17, 1981)._

_Helena Marsh, Mr. Roarke's wife of a bare few days, was portrayed by Samantha Eggar in the tearjerker episode "The Wedding", which was first broadcast on November 3, 1979._

_The Cabo de Varga was the cliff where Mandy Breem (played by Carol Lynley) first met up with Mephistopheles in "The Devil and Mandy Breem"._

_Delphine MacNabb Randolph appeared in the episode "Delphine/The Unkillable" which aired on April 11, 1981; Ann Jillian portrayed the character. And of course, Jamie Marsh was Helena's son, played by Paul John Balson._

_Once again, thanks for reading not just this but all my tales, and believe me, there are many more to come!_


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